


In the Line of Fire

by angstyloyalties



Series: songs of a warborn kingdom [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur and Peter get to be bros, Arthur is reborn and remembers everything, Dawn Treader did not happen, Edmund is gay, F/F, F/M, Gen, Merlin's bi, Merlin's lost a lot of his magic, POV Multiple, Pevensies are all roughly 4-5 years older than they would be in canon, Post-Prince Caspian, Reincarnation, Ships Passing In the Night, World War II, i swear i did research for this fic, it's wwii, mature rating due to themes of war, minor character death in later chapter, no sexual content beyond some heavy making out and implied sexual interaction, of course there's fighting and death, past merthur dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 80,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24273061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstyloyalties/pseuds/angstyloyalties
Summary: The Second World War draws steadily to a close in Europe, but war is never easy, even for the experienced. Arthur, Merlin, and the Pevensies must each navigate the perils of warfare and battlefields—both abroad and at home—to determine for themselves what it means to survive.
Relationships: Arthur Pendragon/Susan Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie, Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Edmund Pevensie, Susan Pevensie/Original Male Character(s)
Series: songs of a warborn kingdom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761064
Comments: 72
Kudos: 64





	1. GERMANY. MID-OCTOBER 1944

It was mid-afternoon when they called Edmund to the commander’s office, but the sun may as well have already set for the clouds in his eyes and the apprehension in his steps. 

There were any number of reasons to be called in, and Edmund, knowing them all, was wary. He’d been practical about his dealings with the Special Operations Executive from the moment he’d been assigned to the force. Played things by the books, went where he was assigned, did as he was told, and asked only the most important and necessary questions. 

It was aggravating, being stuck behind a desk for much of his time with this group when he could be doing much more, but he was used to it by now. Playing the part of someone who knew less than they did meant the difference between pleasant conversation and prying questions. And here, where prying questions could quickly turn to treason, Edmund had no desire to be branded a traitor. He already knew where he stood on that matter, and he was quite happy to have thus far avoided any serious offense.

That said, the second he was ushered into the office to find not just the commander and his clerk but also two suits standing off to the side, Edmund’s wariness turned to intrigue. 

“Officer Pevensie. It’s come to our attention that you have recently celebrated a birthday. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your eighteenth?”

It was an act against the crown to enlist before seventeen. Had Edmund been practical before joining in the war, instead of after, he wouldn’t have been called in, at least not under the guise of something as silly as timing. But he already knew this had nothing to do with his age. The two men in the room, strangers designed to be unrecognizable, proved as much—their suits were tailored and quite sharp despite their simple, classic cut. They were here for something beyond red tape. Besides that, he was plenty legal now.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been with us?”

“Just under two years now.”

“So you were sixteen, when you enlisted?” Asked one of the men in suits. He stood closest to him, a silver tie clip, not quite as shiny as it should have been and far too high, peeking out from beneath his jacket. It matched his cuff links, or at least the one at his left wrist. The right was hidden to his side. 

“Yes.” Edmund spoke clearly, looking toward but not at Captain Patterson. He was a good man and a decent leader, as far as Edmund was concerned. There were simply more important things to pay attention to in the room. 

No one said anything for several long moments. Even the scratching of the clerk’s pen had stopped. Edmund took the silence as an opportunity to observe the other suit. Older, hair too dark to naturally still be that brown. He was at the window, but even from his periphery, Edmund knew the man wasn’t looking out at the city street below. He was watching the room through the reflection. 

“You’re a bright kid, Pevensie,” Captain Patterson started, pulling his attention back. “Do you know the penalty for lying on your enlistment forms?”

“I do, sir.” He nodded, maintaining a straight face. “Would you like a reminder?”

Patterson gave him the same annoyed but resigned look he always gave when this side of Edmund slipped out—not a regular occurrence, though certainly more frequent as of late—but it wasn’t his reaction Edmund found intriguing. A twitch of mirth flashed briefly in the window’s reflection, and suddenly, the man was looking directly at him.

Edmund moved his gaze elsewhere, to the other, younger man. 

There wasn’t much to glean from him, but the SOE’s work wasn’t so far from regular espionage that Edmund was blind to the obvious. The man held himself quite stiffly, as if wanting to make the impression of being orderly—authoritarian, perhaps. But he also watched a single point on the rug beneath his feet, instead of up at the people or the walls or anything else in the room at all. No matter his orders, there was no way he could be that engaged in the pattern—it was too simplistic for such rapt attention. Whatever this meeting was, they either wanted it on record or they wanted the pretense of it. Edmund couldn’t quite tell which without seeing the man’s other cuff link.

“That won’t be necessary, Edmund.”

He looked up, unable to catch his surprise. First names were a bit of a luxury in wartime. Sweethearts and family held onto them to try and bring the men of their lives back whole. They were promises of long and lengthy times spent together, something he would never tempt fate over in a war like this. Certainly not within the rank and file of the military, even in a division as layered as this one. 

The man at the window turned and Edmund was surprised to find that he wasn’t nearly as old as the greying stripes of his eyebrows made him out to be. His glasses didn’t help the image, rimless and too low on his nose, but Edmund could hardly help that. 

He waited for the play to unfold before him. He’d been right to think this conversation was about more than an official reprimand.

“It takes quite a bit of courage to risk prison the way you have,” the man drawled, finally crossing the room. “But from your records, it looks like there’s very little else you’ve done wrong since being assigned to the SOE. A quip or two, but nothing extreme.”

Edmund kept quiet. What was there to say?

“Tell me. What do you think of the other officers?”

“They’re perfectly adequate,” he answered promptly, foregoing any titles, as there was no telling yet, what sort of authority this man actually held. 

He didn’t seem to mind, continuing without much thought. “Do you think they could be better?”

“There’s always room for improvement.”

The man hummed and tapped his fingers along the edge of Patterson’s desk. “Do you enjoy desk work?”

“No.”

“Would you rather Captain Patterson here send you out with the dogs, then?”

Edmund held his gaze, not in a blatant stare, but a vaguely curious one. He wanted to buy himself a sliver of time. 

Their role in the field was defined by a mix of orders that oscillated between military campaigning and intelligence gathering, often to be carried out at the same time. But they weren’t meant to cross over by Edmund's way of thinking, not the way they were being planned. It was manageable, and Patterson and the others certainly did their best, but manageable did not always grant good results.

“No more than required,” he replied, finally.

“Why is that?”

“It’s not always efficient. Intelligence rarely comes from the battlefield, and when it does, it’s very often muddied and distorted. At least by my understanding.”

The man turned, but not before Edmund caught the edge of his smile. If he hadn’t already guessed this little meeting wasn’t a reprimand, he knew it for certain now and allowed himself the victory. Then, he glanced back at the younger man once more. He had barely moved—hardly anything more than the straightening of his shoulders—but it was enough to see the cuff of his right sleeve, the link there round and black. 

“I mean no disrespect, but if I’m not being reprimanded for being underage when I enlisted, what’s this about?” 

“What makes you say you’re not? You committed treason, you know.”

Edmund shook his head. “You wouldn’t be here, for one. Nor would you be asking for my appraisal of this unit. And you certainly wouldn’t be recording this conversation, when Captain Patterson’s clerk is perfectly capable of taking the minutes.”

The man with the cuff links coughed, earning himself a sharp look from the older gentleman. Brief, but admonishing. It was one Edmund knew well, having given it regularly himself, once.

“He’s smarter than you give him credit for, Frank,” the man conceded, chuckling at the captain. Then, he turned back to Edmund.

“My name is Richard Hentley. Bradbury here and I, we’re what you could consider recruiters, of a sort. Handlers.”

Edmund glanced between the two of them, considering the confession. Apparently, he was a prime candidate to join whatever group they were in—CIA or MI6 if he were to guess. Hentley’s accent made Edmund want to say CIA, but in much the same way country borders were just lines on a map, accents meant nothing in the world of intelligence.

Regardless, Hentley had very clearly been in the game longer than his companion. The lines around his eyes shifted, as though he knew better than to let his excitement show. So Edmund began mentally checking off a list that started with the sharp creases of their pant legs and ended with the hook in the younger man’s nose. Just to see if he could still do it.

It was difficult, sometimes, to draw the line between similarities from his best spies in Narnia to the agents in this world—Narnian faces were much harder to read even though he’d known those players for years. Still, for all his efforts to remain under the radar since being assigned here, good habits were difficult to shake. Especially when there was no true motivation to lose them. People rarely expected someone as young as Edmund to have the skillset he did, and he liked to have the advantage whenever possible.

“You’re here to make an offer,” he declared. 

It wasn’t a question, but Hentley nodded anyways. “We’re here to present an opportunity. Something for you to consider.”

The proposition was simple. 

Edmund had impressed them. It didn’t seem to matter that his file was overwrought with desk work, with only the spare field-excursion or two. It was immaculate, regardless, and held some sort of _potential_. Nevermind that Edmund’s reputation among the other SOE officers had an abrasive quality to it. Apparently, that only seemed to entice Hentley more. He ran operations for the SIS out of London, overseeing several dozen MI6 agents, a branch of MI5, and even a handful of CIA operatives on loan for the duration of the war. Apparently, he thought Edmund would be a good fit and had called this meeting to feel him out properly. 

By the time Edmund returned to his desk, tucked away in the far corner of the building, he had the entire conversation broken out into three parts. They were all tests. To see if he’d lie, to see how he thought, to see if he’d slip somewhere. 

He could only venture a guess, but Richard Hentley’s opinion of him outweighed Bradbury’s. In fact, Bradbury’s opinion only mattered to himself. Where Edmund was concerned, it held no weight. Less than Captain Patterson’s, even. And near the end, it had even seemed that none of the others had even mattered—just Hentley and Edmund himself

He liked that. There was a guilty sort of pleasure in knowing he’d done well and that somehow, to the various authorities in that room, Edmund was respected more than a man who very obviously had more official experience than he did, not to mention at least eight years on him in age. 

Then again, Bradbury was younger than him, too, by at least a decade. But Edmund cleared his mind of _that_ thought as he got back to his desk, before he got lost contemplating the nuances to his physical and actual ages. It was an old game, but it was one that would take him far from his current responsibilities, and offer or no offer, he had work to do.

That night, his bones were stiff from sitting the rest of the day, hunched over at his desk. And his eyes were bleary from overuse, searching various files and records. He ached for rest, but there was a letter from Lucy waiting when he got home. 

He opened the envelope slowly as he took the stairs up to his flat, careful enough to be able to slip the letter back inside afterward. It was only a page long, standard for Lucy who could hardly keep still long enough to scratch even that much out on paper, even if there was more for her to say. She could talk a person’s ear off in a minute, but writing out what she wanted to say was a chore and a half.

There was no artwork with the letter this time, and Edmund wasn’t sure whether he should be disappointed or not.

_Dear Edmund,_

_This may well be the last letter I send to you from Finchley. I will be off to the front soon._

He fumbled, dropping his keys at the door to his flat, and re-read the line twice more to prove he wasn’t actually seeing things. Any exhaustion he might have had, was gone now, chased away by worry.

_The ATA asked for volunteers to pilot the planes taking the nurses to the front, and I’ve signed up. They know I have medical training, as well, so I have every reason to go, no matter the capacity. I’ve already made up my mind on this, so you shouldn’t waste your time trying to convince me otherwise. Your letter will not reach me until I’ve already left, anyhow._

Edmund swiped his keys from the floor and fit them to the door before he read any further. Concern was one thing. He didn’t mind being caught in a state of concern. Panic, on the other hand, was another thing altogether. Panic was reserved for private spaces, for quiet, lonesome places. It was the easiest way for him to separate the irrational thoughts from the controllable ones. 

_I suspect you are likely making that face of yours, where the bridge of your nose wrinkles. It’s unflattering, and you should stop._

Edmund frowned but lifted his eyebrows in a feeble attempt to smooth out his expression.

_I know you’re worried. Peter would be as well, but he is even farther away and more preoccupied than you are. I suspect he’ll get his letter about the same time you do. But if I’ve said it once, I have said it a thousand times. This is my country, too. I ought to do something for it. I’m certainly old enough now._

“No, you’re not,” Edmund muttered, shrugging out of his coat just inside the door. He dropped his scarf to the floor in the process, and for the space of two steps, the letter in his hand was more important. Then his own practicalities caught up to him and he backtracked to pick it up again and hang it on the rack by the door.

_I know you don’t think so, but at least I won’t be tried for treason, which is more than I can say for you._

Edmund grit his teeth, but Lucy had a point. It had been a complicated decision, his enlisting. Something he had struggled with for months after they came back again. Leaving Narnia the second time had been harder than the first, and as much as he’d tried to focus on anything else, the war was quick to consume his mind, especially when Peter was called to serve. 

It was difficult enough, the first time back, to watch boys hardly older than him (and decades younger) go off to war when he was deemed too young for the task. He’d felt useless. Then, in fighting Miraz’s army in his child’s body, no less, Edmund proved himself the opposite. He wasn’t useless, he only appeared that way—particularly to the men of authority here, who were easy to trick in their general state of desperation. All commodity ran low in wartime, even soldiers. 

His enlisting had come as no surprise, except perhaps, to Susan.

_Susan’s absolutely furious, but not how you would think. Of course, she rattled on about being too young, about being a proper lady and such—all the same things either you or Peter would have said, I’m sure. But something strange happened too. She said I shouldn’t get involved. That the Home Guard was enough._

Edmund agreed, but continued on, settling onto the edge of his bed as he pulled the tie loose from his collar. 

_When I tried to explain that if anything, this would be safer than when I went to battle in Narnia, she said it was hardly the same and that I shouldn’t think of war as some game._

He frowned. There was nothing in what Susan said that was wrong, exactly. War wasn’t a game, and he didn’t think it was the same here as it was in Narnia, either. The weaponry alone was drastically different. More people died, and they died much quicker where bombs and guns were involved. 

But Lucy knew that. She wouldn’t think of war as anything less than the atrocity it was, and it was strange to think Susan would accuse her of it.

_I asked her what she meant, because you know as well as I that I would never be so flippant, and she asked me when I would stop playing pretend about Narnia._

_Ed, it’s like she’s forgotten._

There wasn’t much left to the letter, just some of Susan’s characteristics and recent phrases that Lucy called attention to in an effort to build her case. But truthfully, she needn’t have wasted the ink. Edmund understood the point she was trying to make perfectly. He hadn’t even known Susan was back in England, and if that wasn’t indicative of how different things had become for their sister, he didn’t know what was.

Edmund had to squint to read the last few lines, simultaneously annoyed and endeared by Lucy’s refusal to write on the backside of a sheet, or god forbid, write on a second. It was a holdover from their days writing on parchment, waiting for the ink to dry before doing anything with the sheet at all. But it forced her to scrunch her last lines so close to one another at the end of a page and made her already hasty scrawl nearly illegible. 

_When you’re home next, maybe you could talk to her? She always listens to you._

_Take care, and be safe._

_Lucy_

Edmund fell back onto his bed with a heavy sigh—still dressed, shoes still tied, with only his tie askew—and contemplated Narnia. He missed it, to the core of his bones, to the center of his being. He missed how their lives had been just as much as he missed who he’d once been. But things had changed since they were last there, and for none so much as Susan.

He knew long before all this that she had distanced herself from Narnia. He hadn’t faulted her for that, and still couldn’t, really. There were certain things he refused to discuss, himself. As Peter had, the first time. 

But Peter had calmed down again since they left Narnia in Caspian’s hands. His last year at school had started and ended with minimal issue until he received his orders, at which point, the focus shifted entirely to staying alive. As far as Edmund could tell, though, from the letters that came in from the front—though they were far less frequent than Lucy’s updates—Peter was well suited to the military. He wasn’t just surviving, but doing well. 

Edmund was hardly surprised. 

His brother was at his best when he had order. Sure, Peter preferred to be the one in charge, but in the middle of muddy battlefields where death ran rampant, rank hardly mattered.

But for Susan, there was no clear equivalent to her source of order. Where she’d managed to hold her head high after a lost lifetime after their first departure from Narnia, their second return to England was different. 

It had been nothing short of tragic, arriving in Narnia to find a kingdom lost—both to invaders and to time. Edmund understood the pain, just as much as the others had. But there had been so much more that Susan had had to deal with—the battle, Miraz, Caspian. Edmund hadn’t anticipated how far reaching those feelings would become. 

Perhaps that had been where he’d gone wrong. 

Susan was more logical than Peter, and stronger, in some ways, due to her ability to think things through. Because of her practicality, Edmund had believed in her enough to trust that she would understand in her own way how to deal—not just with the loss of leaving Narnia a second time but also everything that had happened. It was different from the first time, certainly, but Susan was smart and she’d done well enough the first time that Edmund hadn’t worried for her so much as he had Peter or even Lucy. He thought she would be fine, believed in it so fully that when Susan first drew away, he stepped back too, providing her with the space she obviously needed. 

But, if Lucy thought she was _forgetting_ Narnia and their times there altogether, writing it off as some childish game—and he was inclined to believe Lucy in this, as he was with most things—then perhaps he’d been wrong to give Susan so much space. Even if she had added to that distance herself.

Edmund sighed and leaned over to his bedside table. He slipped the letter back into its envelope and into the drawer to join several others like it. The majority came from Lucy, with a handful from Peter. Only one in the drawer was from Susan, and it sat near the bottom of the stack. 

He thought briefly of writing to her now, but decided against it. Edmund would be going home at the end of the month on leave, and if Susan was back from the States, he’d reach her sooner in person than he would by letter. This sort of matter was one best handled by a face-to-face conversation, anyhow.

Edmund fell back against the covers again, suddenly wide awake as he looked ahead. It would be a short visit; the last before his entire unit would be off to France. From there, he wasn’t sure which way his life would go, as he’d yet to decide on Hentley’s offer. 

In a way, the orders for France couldn’t have come at a better time. Despite his earlier assessment of the SOE and their purpose, Edmund was embarrassingly eager to get out from behind his desk to do some real work with them, even if he didn’t entirely trust the system Captain Patterson employed. 

And after seeing Susan, the mission may well be exactly what he’d need to settle his nerves. He hoped it wouldn’t turn out quite like that, but the truth was, there were only two possible outcomes for the conversation he intended to have with his sister, and he worried it might already be too late for one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is! i've been working on this for a little over a year now and i'm really excited to share it! i'm really just in love with the crossover of these two fandoms. i've got another in the works that's entirely separate from this, but for now, please leave kudos and/or comments with your thoughts please!! or hop over to chat with me on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)) bc I have A LOT planned for these guys :)


	2. FINCHLEY/LONDON. EARLY NOVEMBER 1944

“Edmund! I didn’t know you’d be home!”

“I could say the same of you.” 

Susan shuffled back from the door and allowed her brother in, but said nothing. He smiled slightly as he set his bag down. 

“Is it a good time?” he called after her as she disappeared down the hall. “You look like you’re on your way out.”

“Perfect, actually,” Susan answered from in front of the mirror in the living room. “I’m headed for supper. Come with me? You can meet Malcolm.”

When she returned back to the foyer, Edmund had buttoned his coat once more and was pulling Susan’s coat off its hook to hold out for her. 

“Have you seen Mum since you got back?” he asked, turning up the collar on his coat. 

Susan shook her head, taking up his arm as they left the house. The car was waiting for them farther down the block. Their street was narrow and difficult to maneuver with so many vehicles parked along the sides.

“She’s still up in Cambridge with Aunt Alberta. They’re busy with a wedding now.”

“Wedding?” he asked. “Don’t tell me Eustace is getting married?”

“He is! Jill’s apparently a lovely girl.”

“Anyone would have to be, to put up with him.”

She swatted at him, but there wasn’t much strength it in. Eustace was an interesting fellow, but very clearly not someone any of them were fond of.

“So it’s just you, then?”

“Yes, but only since Lucy left.”

He hummed, but didn’t say anything else. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but she knew Edmund well enough not to pry. He didn’t always say what was on his mind, but he always thought through what he did say. 

“So, where are we headed, and who’s Malcolm? Is he from around here?” he asked, eventually, settled into the car with her. 

“Into London, shouldn’t be long,” Susan answered. “And no. We met in America, actually.”

He didn’t even bother to hide his frown, but kept quiet for the rest of the ride. It bothered her to know that that was worse.

When they arrived, Edmund stepped out first and turned to help her out of the car. If he had opinions about the venue, he kept them to himself.

“Thank you,” she said softly, straightening as he shut the door to the car behind her.

“Susan!”

Her smile stitched its way across her face at the sound of his voice, and she turned from Edmund to Malcolm as he joined them.

The difference between the two couldn’t have been more obvious. Malcolm’s hair was lighter and a bit longer than Edmund’s was—though neither feat was particularly hard to achieve. He was physically taller too, his shoulders broader. But Edmund stood straighter, his head held higher. 

His expression now was level and calm, almost too serious against Malcolm’s welcoming smile.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she explained. “I didn’t know Ed would be in town, but I thought he could join us tonight.”

“Of course!” He grinned that brilliant, wide smile of his and turned to Edmund after kissing her cheek. “Malcolm Hayes. Susan’s told me so much about you, it’s good to finally put a face to the name.”

“Edmund. Pevensie, of course.” Edmund replied, taking his hand. The expression he wore was pleasant enough, but Susan found herself apprehensive, nonetheless. “I’d say the same of you, but I’m afraid my dear sister’s not mentioned you at all.”

“Only because I know how much you like to form your own opinions,” Susan laughed, cutting in quickly as she looped her arm through Malcolm’s. “Shall we?”

Within only a few minutes of being seated, she was beginning to wish it was Peter who’d come home on leave, rather than Edmund. Peter, at least, knew better than to be so underhandedly rude.

“So, what brings you so far from America, Malcolm?”

“The war. I’m posted with naval operations here in London.”

“Are you on leave as well then?”

“Oh. No, no. I’m stationed here in the city. I oversee correspondence between the major outposts across Europe.”

If she hadn’t, just then, turned to thank their server, Susan might have seen the turn of her brother’s eyebrow or the shift in his jaw. If she had, she’d have done anything to stop Edmund before he started.

“Really? That sounds fascinating.” There was a dip and curl to his tone that Susan recognized, a low-level patronization she hoped she was just imagining, though she knew she wasn’t. “Could you tell me about it?”

“Oh, it’s nothing too interesting.”

“Nonsense,” Susan interjected. “You were just telling me the other day about that missing carrier.”

“Not missing. Just in the wrong place.”

“Yes, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m sure there would have been more trouble.” She was adamant about her praise and cut over to Edmund. “Malcolm’s really just being modest. I met a number of his supervisors at a banquet the other night, and they were all quite pleased with his work. Indispensable, they said.”

Susan only wanted Edmund to respect Malcolm’s work, to consider it valuable, but she knew as soon as his eyes flicked over to meet hers that she’d misread him. 

He’d known all along. 

“I’m sure he is. Supplies and equipment are invaluable, whether you’re sludging through the field, manning radio dials, or dispatching calls.” 

Edmund’s expression didn’t change, but his tone shifted slightly, for the worse.

“It’s just quite different from my own work,” he continued, turning back to Malcolm. The turn of his lips was not overtly perilous, but nothing about her brother was ever overt. “Especially if there are banquets involved. I’m not sure I remember what it’s like to not having to barter ration cards.” 

Susan stared. Edmund was defensive, even a bit annoyed. But before she could say something, he set his napkin on the table carefully, retreating from the table.. 

“If you’ll excuse me a moment?” Edmund stood without awaiting a response, and she watched him dumbly as he flagged down a server and disappeared toward what she presumed were the washrooms. 

“I’m sorry, Malcolm. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“No, no.” He held up a hand, excusing Edmund entirely. “He was right. I’m sure the job is quite different.”

“Well, yes. But he needn’t be so… blunt about it.”

“I imagine he’s just frustrated with the circumstances. Him being out there, when he doesn’t have to be.” Malcolm sighed and took up her hand across the table. “It’s fine. Really, Susan, it is. He’s young, and this war hasn’t really turned out to be the glorious thing a lot of the boys his age think it will be.”

A few years older than her, Malcolm was roughly five years older than Edmund, but he couldn’t have been further from the truth about what Edmund knew of wars. Susan couldn’t tell Malcolm how it really was, of course, but that was in part because she didn’t understand it fully herself. Peter had tried to explain it when Edmund first signed up to leave, but the truth remained that she no longer saw eye to eye with her siblings, particularly when it came to the war. 

“But you’re just doing your job here, so his is easier out there. I don’t know why he doesn’t understand.”

“I’m sure he does. But understanding something doesn’t always make it easier to accept,” Malcolm explained, gently patting her hand. 

When Edmund emerged from the far corner once more, Malcolm offered her what she knew was meant to be a reassuring smile before settling back. 

Surprisingly, conversation following that interlude ran much smoother. Malcolm went so far as to apologize if he’d overstepped somehow, and Edmund, being who he was, simply shook his head. He said nothing and explained nothing, but neither addressed it.

Instead, they talked about America, which led to talking about Malcolm, and, eventually, to Malcolm and Susan. She let Malcolm tell the story she knew so well already. He’d run into her, quite literally, at a dance just a month before coming home to England, stepping on her feet in the process, and then spent the remainder of the evening trying to convince her he wouldn’t continue to bruise her toes, if she would be so kind as to grant him a dance. 

“She declined at first, but I was persistent and eventually she allowed me the honor of not one, but three dances that evening.” Malcolm laughed, “Your sister’s quite the dancer. She wears me out at times.”

Susan smiled at him when he looked over, but only so she wouldn’t have to look at Edmund. She could already see the slight surprise in his face from her periphery. She’d shared so little with him in recent years, by virtue of distance more than anything else, she could only imagine he was confused by what certainly would appear, to him, like a sudden change of heart in Susan. 

To say that things were difficult when they left Narnia in Caspian’s hands and returned home was an understatement. The school year passed without incident and they tried to do as they had the year before, but the four siblings talked more sparingly of their adventures—none of them felt inclined to address the fact that Narnia had changed so drastically, and they were all unwilling to confront the reality that it likely was changing yet again. 

Then, over the holidays, Lucy suggested they host a miniature ball for themselves in the comfort of their own living room—something to brighten them all up, she had said, as it had the year before. However, things never did quite happen the same way twice. For Susan, the difference came in the form of resolving herself to focusing on what remained under her control—namely, her life in this world. 

So, she refused to participate in Lucy’s trip down memory lane, telling them she no longer felt like dancing.

And she hadn’t. Even in America, Susan hadn’t gone out with the other girls in her classes. It was only by luck that they’d finally managed to convince her simply to accompany them one night. The night she’d met Malcolm.

He had been persistent—which she had originally found bothersome—but eventually, she convinced herself it would be fine, a better alternative than an endless night of repeated requests. But it turned out to be more than acceptable. It was enjoyable, even, especially because Malcolm had been sweet—holding up to his promise of leaving her toes intact, and let her set the pace for the evening. She’d forgotten how much she loved it, how much she enjoyed moving to music with someone else, particularly someone who knew what they were doing opposite her. And so one dance turned to two turned to three. 

It wasn’t the same as it had been in Narnia, but there was something familiar enough in the motions that she was surprised not to be hurt by it all anymore. To realize that maybe it hadn’t been that she didn’t want to dance, but rather that she hadn’t wanted to remember where she’d learned the steps. And Malcolm had never asked. 

It was dark when they got back to the house that evening, but with the early winter chill, Edmund wasn’t looking to turn in yet, and neither, it seemed, was Susan.

“Tea?”

He hung up her coat first, then his own at the door. “Tea would be lovely.”

Edmund felt less on edge now, with just Susan, and was glad to know she wasn’t too upset with him. He’d been unpleasant at the restaurant, and a part of him felt bad for it—not for Malcolm’s sake, but for Susan’s. He truly hadn’t meant to needle the man, but everything about the situation had rubbed him the wrong way and Malcolm was an easy target.

There wasn’t anything wrong with him, in particular. He was loud, but Edmund was unnaturally quiet, himself. Malcolm was dull, but most people were in Edmund’s perspective. If he were to be honest, it wasn’t Malcolm at all. His eyes were light and unburdened, and he had an open and uplifting manner that came through in his pleasant tone. All things considered, he was plenty suitable for Susan, especially if she thought so herself.

But that was the problem. She seemed uncertain, to some degree, and the longer he’d watched her the more out of character she had become, not so much in her mannerisms but in her eagerness to prove Malcolm’s worth to Edmund. Like she needed his approval. 

He knew she appreciated his opinion, or that she had once, but Susan seemed overly concerned with demonstrating something worthwhile in Malcolm, much more than was necessary, and it was disturbing to see her like that. As though she didn’t trust her own judgement, or, at the very least, didn’t place enough conviction in it. 

“Have you heard from Pete, lately?” Edmund asked, desperate to forget the evening in its entirety as he joined Susan in the kitchen. He’d wanted to talk to her about Narnia, but the night had been tense enough already and he had another few days here any how.

“A few weeks ago, but he’s not quite as frequent with his letters as Lucy is,” she answered. “Last I heard, he was in France?”

“I thought it was Poland, but maybe he left.”

“Would he have moved so far already?”

“Possibly,” he answered, taking the tray from Susan before they both moved through the house into the sitting room. It was alarming how easy some habits were to pick up again. 

“I’m heading there next,” he announced, when they settled into their usual spots. Susan on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, Edmund in the chair opposite. 

There had been a chess set between them once. Often, in fact. He wondered where it had gone.

“France? But aren’t you… I thought they had you in Germany, handling paperwork?”

He shook his head. “They did, but there’s more to what we do than reports. I go where they tell me.”

Susan sighed and collected her tea into her hands, resting the rim of it against her lips for one, two, three seconds before taking a sip. Had he a camera with the proper exposure time, Edmund was certain he could take a snapshot of the way her eyes fluttered shut at that first taste. Some things didn’t change. 

He tucked the mental image away and waited for her to set the cup back down before he continued. The last thing they needed was to throw hot tea around.

“It’ll be the last time, I think.” 

“Really?” Susan asked. “Are they letting you come home?”

He would have winced at the excitement in her voice, if he weren’t so focused on maintaining as neutral an expression as possible while he waited for her to settle back. She always read him best, and he didn’t want to make this any more difficult than necessary.

There. The cup was settled in its saucer again and back on the table.

“Not quite,” he started simply. “I was called in the other day for a chat with some men. Recruiters for the SIS. I haven’t decided yet, but I’ve been considering taking them up on their offer.”

“Oh, Ed.” The crestfallen look was one he expected. The following heat in her voice was not. “Isn’t it enough to keep doing what you’re doing now? It’s dangerous, you know.”

“Of course it is, but it isn’t as though I haven’t done it before.”

“Before? Edmund, this is real life. It’s time you grew up and stopped trying to hold onto all that… fantasy.”

His argument died on his lips at the look on Susan’s face. His reference to Narnia had been unintended and vague, an accident, really, because it was only around family he managed to be so unguarded. But from the look on Susan’s face, some tangled mix of exasperation and discomfort, Edmund finally understood what Lucy had meant in her letter—the recognition of it twisted in his chest, setting fire to his earlier discomfort.

Susan hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but she was certainly trying to.

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” he asked, fighting against the edge that crept into his voice. He wasn’t doing a good job of it. “Grown up and moved on? To what? Banquets, parties, and pointless conversations?”

“It’s certainly better than what you’re planning to do, sneaking around behind enemy lines. It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

“We’re in the middle of a war!” he exclaimed, before pulling back at the look of shock on her face. It had been so long since Edmund raised his voice to anyone. 

The room fell silent, the pair of them staring at each other, their tea forgotten. Edmund hadn’t even touched his, temper simmering. 

He sighed, “I’m only trying to help end it, Susan. To do my part. Yes, it is dangerous, but war isn’t pretty. We can’t all sit around all day, looking at logs and paperwork.” 

Maybe he had needed this more than he thought he did, stuck behind a desk for months, watching the war drag on, and on, and on without a way to do anything of worth about it.

Watching Susan’s expression, he wondered at the battle they were having, here, between themselves. It was the kind he could only have with Susan, whose words could be as brutal as his own. They’d had their fair share of arguments in Narnia, but they’d always known when to stop. No matter what they argued over, no matter how severe the loss on either side, they had to come back to one another—to be on the same side, not at each other’s throats. More than just siblings, they had been a king and queen of a nation. There hadn’t been the opportunity for grudges.

Here and now, nothing of the sort existed to close the gap between them. In an age of guns with hair-triggers and bombs that could obliterate everything in sight, Edmund and Susan were starting, poking, teasing out a bitter war of their own. 

But there was still time to hold. Time to change strategy. His thoughts drifted to the chessboard again. Edmund could see it clearly now, with the pieces lined up on either side. The pale, white pieces were laid out before him, untouched, and he considered whether or not he could do it. If he could allow such a game to start when the fallout was already proving to be the worst it had ever been. 

When he spoke, he did so in as careful and calm a tone as he could manage, determined not to start this. To walk away from it all. 

“You don’t fight a war by sitting back,” he said, standing as he tried to rein in his bitterness. “You used to know that.” _You used to know better_ , he added silently. 

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” she said, quiet but firm.

He scoffed, unable to catch himself, and moved toward the foyer for his bag. Maybe he was ready to turn in for the night, after all.

“Maybe Malcolm understands me better than you do.”

His bag already in hand, Edmund froze at her words. They echoed about the room behind him, or maybe only in his head. It was hard to tell. Susan, the most logical of his siblings, had just sprouted such a horrendous lie, he wasn’t sure he had heard her right to begin with.

On Narnia’s battlefields, it was Peter he knew best, and in this world or any other, Lucy was simplest to pinpoint, as she was the same wherever she was. But whether in the halls of Cair Paravel or within the walls of their family home in Finchley, Susan was the one he could see clearest of all. 

He had seen her at her best and he had seen her at her worst, just as she had seen the same of him. Edmund would know her in any world and in any life, in happiness or in pain, because they were similar in their shades of darkness, much the way Peter and Lucy shined with all the brightness of the sun. To think anyone else could possibly know her better was laughable.

“Are you sure about that, Susan?” he asked, tightening his grip around the handles of his bag. 

The chessboard came back to the forefront of his mind. It was still set, but now Susan was seated behind the lighter pieces, daring to reach out and make the first move.

“Yes.” 

There it was. Definitive. A lone pawn moving the space of a single square. 

“You know,” he called, turning from the stairs back toward the door. “I think they might have asked the wrong Pevensie.” 

Dropping his bag again, Edmund pulled his coat and scarf from hook on the wall, pulling them on with deliberate care. Behind him, Susan stood. He could hear the fabric of her skirt shift against the sofa. 

He did not turn around to face her.

“You should be the spy, Susan. Seems you’re already managing to disguise yourself beyond recognition.”

“Edmund.”

He turned up the collar of his coat and, gathering his bag again, forced himself through the door, away from Susan and away from the house. He could not stay the night. 

Edmund had been right in thinking he had given her too much space, but it was clear there was no longer room for her to turn back. There wasn’t room on the board to move backward, yet. 

He made it several blocks before he could think clearly again, weighing his options, his next steps. Edmund had known, perhaps almost as soon as he’d gotten back to his desk the other day, that he would likely take up the offer Hentley had laid out for him to join the SIS, to be an agent in their ranks. 

Talking with Susan only made him all the more certain. 

But his conscience remained just barely ahead of his bitterness, because she was right, of course. It was dangerous. Edmund wasn’t a stranger to the type of work or the risk involved, but he’d be a fool to ignore the truth.

Hentley had mentioned the measures they could take to minimize the risk and the training and education he thought might be beneficial for Edmund before he went into the field. 

To say he wasn’t eager for the work would be nonsense—he missed it more than he could bear some days. Still, as he walked, Edmund turned over the choices that had been laid out for him, the different paths he could take with Hentley and the work Edmund would do with the SIS. He needed to be thorough in his calculations, or he’d simply be proving Susan right.

Eventually, he settled on the more cautious of them: schooling first, then field work.

Edmund was the right age, now anyhow, and he wasn’t entirely uninterested in the Modern Languages program at Oxford Hentley suggested—they wanted him for proper undercover work and versatility would be an asset.

The accelerated program suited him just fine, considering he already knew Latin, which lent itself to many of the languages spoken in across the continent, and German, which filled in most of the gaps. Given enough time, there wasn’t much he couldn’t work out in his head, and formal instruction could only help in that regard. 

More importantly, however, the time spent in preparation would prove he wasn’t just doing this for what Susan believed was some feeble attempt at maintaining a fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of the chapters from here on out will feature 2-3 scenes, with changes in POV throughout.  
> everyone'll get a POV (except Malcolm here), but they'll mostly focus on ed, merlin, susan, and arthur
> 
> leave kudos or comments if it so strikes you, or come chat with me on tumblr! ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))


	3. FRANCE. LATE JANUARY 1945

Merlin didn’t usually make a habit of frequenting pubs. While alcohol had gotten better over the centuries—more varied, with wider ranges of flavor than anyone in his younger years could have ever imagined—the company found in many drinking establishments had only gotten worse, no matter where in the world he traveled. Rowdy, reckless, and increasingly uncoordinated, the crowds in France tonight were as disappointing as ever. They were hardly even entertaining, on the whole. It wasn’t so much their fault, if he was honest. Merlin simply had particular tastes. 

He was nearly ready to call it a night—convinced he would not find what he was looking for—but in a final sweep, he saw a young man tucked into the far corner, alone. A near-empty glass sat on the table ahead of him, but he was more interested in the book in his hands, utterly unfazed by the chaos of drunken stupor around him.

Merlin watched him for a moment, and then another. He should have left, given his orders for the morning, but the man was appealing. Dark hair and all sharp edges, from what he could see of his face. Arched eyebrows and a focused gaze. 

He had the air of someone too weary for direct company, though he’d obviously chosen to be in public. Someone who was beyond the rough and rowdy tendencies of the young souls of those gathered in the pub, but was still grateful for the noise. A break from the war was still a break, but he seemed to appreciate it in a different manner altogether from the others.

Merlin tracked his movements, watching his left hand reach for the glass in front of him, and saw the book shift in his hands to reveal the rest of his face. 

He was a soldier by the cut of his hair if not the rigidity of his posture. No younger than Merlin appeared to be, himself. But no one sat alone in a pub to read. Not with an expression quite like that—of someone simultaneously cut apart by the circumstances of war, and yet somehow decidedly unaffected. 

This was a stranger with secrets, tucked away in a dark corner of a pub in France. Someone who piqued Merlin’s curiosity. Not because of the secrets themselves, but because it took a certain kind of person to hold them and, conveniently, they tended to be the easiest sort to enjoy a night alone with—asking the least amount of questions and never expecting more than he did. The perfect sort of company for the night Merlin wanted. He turned to the barkeep and called for two pints, excitement drumming in his chest. 

Centuries ago, he might have been embarrassed at how quickly he settled into the comfort of this decision, but Merlin had had entire lifetimes to come into himself, every side of him. And, given that the stranger was certain to never cross paths with him again, Merlin wasn’t so sure he cared about the sensibilities of his past self. 

When he had the glasses in hand and turned back to join the young man in the corner, however, the table had been taken over by a crowd of drunken soldiers.

“Looking for me?” The voice came from his left, clear and heavy as it cut through the din.

“I, erm…” He glanced back to the barkeep with tentative worry, but he was busy with yet another group crowding up for his services. Merlin and his new companion ended up shuffled to the far end of the counter. “Yes.”

The stranger smirked, and the age fell from his face. A calm disposition settled carefully in its place as he pulled the glass deftly from Merlin’s right hand. 

Here, inches from him, Merlin could see the depth in his eyes. He had not been wrong, before. The man was young; old enough to be a soldier, sure, but perhaps only _just_. There was something hidden behind his smooth features. Something more than the amusement in his upturned lips and curiosity in his eyes. 

Oh, but his eyes…

Dark and decadent, the dark brown was, at first, nothing more or less than the color of earth, steady and stable. Then, they caught the warm golden light from overhead, and suddenly, they were the color of tree bark, of autumn leaves scattered in the dirt and a storm-ridden sky at dusk. The light danced, dipping in and out of that shadowed mystery to reveal something brighter. Something immutable and lively hidden by the dark.

His eyes were the color of neither life nor death, but something caught in the beautifully precarious state in between.

“Thank you.”

Merlin nodded dumbly, almost as if speech was gone from his mind altogether. Gone along with the confidence he’d had just moments before. Gone with the lifetimes he’d spent growing accustomed to his wants, leaning into them, breathing them in. Mind wiped clean, he felt stripped bare under this unyielding gaze, suddenly reverted to some younger self too eager for a bit of excitement. Well, he’d certainly found it. This man was more than curious. 

He was trouble. 

Either that or Merlin had already drank more than he should have. Would this be his third or his fourth? Whatever it was, he brought the glass to his lips, glad for something with which to occupy himself. 

“English?” the stranger asked, a tiny sliver of curiosity dancing in his face. Gods he had a good face. 

Merlin took a longer pull than anticipated, mulling the question over. He found he wasn’t entirely certain how to answer. Nationalities weren’t a concern of his. He’d traveled the world over so many times it was hard to keep track of where the borders started and ended. 

“Or… Irish?” the stranger followed up, eyeing Merlin’s glass. 

“English,” Merlin decided. “From We—"

A flash of something dark and demanding dropped across the man’s face so quickly Merlin couldn’t have finished his thought, even if he tried. Then, as if he had imagined it entirely, the man’s expression shifted seamlessly back to what it had been before, with some strange twist of contented amusement playing at the edges.

It took a moment, but Merlin understood. A name, a unit number, a hometown—these were just some of the things that could be traced back to them if they weren’t careful. Merlin was not ashamed of his proclivity for men, nor did the threat of being found out bother him much. He didn’t expect it to be that large a risk in France, of all places, either, especially not in a pub where so many of the patrons were ignoring propriety altogether. And if he was wrong, if it became a problem, Merlin could magic himself out of a tight spot if absolutely necessary—that sort of thing—a trick of light, a brief distraction—was small enough for him to manage, even now.

Still, that didn’t mean the same went for the man opposite him, and Merlin wouldn’t be so inconsiderate as to leave another in such a vulnerable position.

“Bit of an unusual reading spot, isn’t it?” he asked instead, a bit desperate now for something to say. Merlin felt the budding urge to prove himself interesting. As if he could pull something more out of the stranger than he’d already gotten. Which wasn’t much at all. 

“You can read just about anywhere if you’ve got enough light, I think.” He gave nothing away in his voice. No hint of intention, of mood, of anything. “And the light here is brighter than in the room I’ve got tonight.”

The lighting in the pub was nothing special, so Merlin wasn’t entirely certain what he could possibly have meant, besides that there was no light at all in his quarters for the evening. 

“But maybe I came for the drink and the company, and wanted to be prepared in case either was… less than satisfying.”

“Have you reached a verdict?” he dared. 

It was presumptuous. He was jumping ahead now, five steps and across the river. In any other time, in any other pub, with any other man, he might have felt more sure of himself. But here, now, with him, Merlin felt so entirely out of depth, he wasn’t sure what was happening. 

The young man didn’t seem at all interested in getting to know him. Fine. There was no issue there. Merlin didn’t want that either. But there was still such a pull to engage, he couldn't deny it. If he could just figure out what the other wanted.

“Close, I think. Wouldn’t mind a bit more time to sort things out.” Despite his words, the man slid his glass—beer sloshing around inside still—across the counter as if he were done with it. Perhaps he was, Merlin wasn’t certain. It was hard to think, being watched like this.

Merlin wasn’t an inexperienced man. In fact, his long life was overwhelmingly full of enjoyable encounters with whoever had caught his eye. He knew how this worked, particularly in times of war and in places like these. Women tended to like a simple wooing with him, a gentle easing into the suggestion of a night together. They found him darling and lovely, and there were certainly times when he appreciated the endearing kind of nights. Something sweet.

With men, on the other hand, things were rarely so simple. They hid their meanings, buried their requests between layered intentions, and Merlin had often found himself working twice as hard to find what he wanted, or what he didn’t. It was trickier with them. More difficult to work out who was worth his attention and who wasn’t. More troublesome to determine the kind of lover a man would be. And yet, Merlin had discovered that as arduous as the chase was, he found it infinitely more rewarding when he looked for a man he could share a bed with. He liked them better, at least, and over the centuries, he’d figured out more or less what it would take to woo them, too.

But this man wasn’t like any others. In all of Merlin’s years, in all the corners of the world, this one was something different. He hadn’t answered his questions, but still somehow told Merlin exactly what he’d wanted to know. It was confusing and unnerving. 

If Merlin was to be honest with himself, though, it was exhilarating, too. A kind of intoxicating that he wasn’t sure quite what to do with yet, though it appeared he’d have to decide soon.

“Thanks, again,” the man said, holding Merlin’s gaze as he tucked the book into the crook of his arm. As he excused himself, Merlin couldn’t make heads or tails of how his night had turned. It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of an hour since he’d first caught sight of the man in the corner, and now, Merlin was watching as he shuffled out. 

It took him half a heartbeat to decide. Half a breath to disregard the nonsense of their exchange and focus on what he did know. 

The night was young, the man was attractive, and if Merlin did not go after him now, he was certain to regret it in the morning.

Edmund hadn’t had any intention of drinking that night. In fact, he’d settled in with a book rather early; he was off for Oxford the next morning, and a jump start to his reading had seemed perfectly acceptable. However, after an hour of attempting to get through the same two pages, he’d given up. He blamed the room—too dimly lit—and the lateness of the evening—winter’s darkness had already fallen. But in truth, he wasn’t entirely in the mood for studying. 

Despite knowing full well that no one went to a pub to read, Edmund took the book with him. He was looking for a particular sort of evening, with a particular sort of company, and the book would only help him in that endeavor.

The man at the counter came close to hitting all the marks for him. Dark hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, and a general look of disinterest in all the other patrons around them. Like Edmund, he was alone, which only left two more questions. 

Though he could guess at the answer for one, it wasn’t until he caught the man turning toward the barkeep—after rather unabashedly staring in his directly—that Edmund knew for certain. Age—the other matter—was less of a problem anyhow, given how much of a tricky thing it was for him.

Edmund slid from the booth and picked his way across the room to him, glad to manage it before he turned around.

“Looking for me?”

“I, erm…” the man’s eyes flickered back to the barkeep before they were both shuffled along the counter. Then, he said, “Yes.” 

Edmund fought to keep from smiling—the man’s voice was deeper than he had expected—and took the glass offered to him, lifting it subtly. “Thanks.”

The pub wasn’t so large that Edmund hadn’t gotten a good look at him before, but standing next to each other now, he could finally get a proper appraisal done.

His first impression was that he was a bit tongue-tied. It wasn’t an unexpected reaction. Edmund had always been quite light on his feet, quick and agile—sneaky even when it wasn’t strictly necessary. But he found the look on the man’s face amusing. The confusion was appealing and surprisingly endearing. 

Then, it faded, and he found something else, a weariness buried into the lines around the man’s eyes. Cutting a sharp contrast against the clear blue staring back at him. They seemed to hold a deep well of patience, those eyes. As though he were waiting for something. 

Edmund wasn’t so surprised by that. There was a war on after all and he had no reason to believe the man didn’t have family and friends waiting for him at home. What _did_ strike him was the sudden desire to know where that might be. 

“English?” he asked. It was a departure from his usual line of inquiries, but Edmund felt his guess was accurate. The man was too pale to be Italian or from around the Mediterranean, at least originally, and his features were too dark against such pale skin to be from anywhere near the Eastern Front.

“Or… Irish?” Edmund amended, reevaluating when the man drank nearly half his pint instead of answering. Then, just as soon as the word left him, he wanted to take it back. The less he knew, the better.

“English. From We—" 

He fixed him with a severe look, cutting him off even if it was Edmund’s own fault for venturing so close to a boundary they shouldn’t cross. 

After a moment’s silence, the man asked, “Bit of an unusual reading spot, isn’t it?” 

Edmund shifted, taking another drink before answering. The conversation proposed, no matter how safe, would take too long, and he wasn’t interested in losing valuable time after his own idiotic digression. 

“You can read just about anywhere if you’ve got enough light, I think. And the light here is brighter than in the room I’ve got tonight.”

The trick was to find the second question—every question usually had at least that, something else that was more interesting and more important to know. Edmund had become good at rooting them out. 

“But, maybe I came for the drink and the company, and wanted to be prepared in case either was… less than satisfying.” He delivered the line with a deliberate smirk, conscious of the other’s face as he did so. And he was well rewarded for his efforts. The change was subtle, but very certainly there. Recognition and the barest hint of hope. A flash of something flittering across his face—a hair shy of full excitement, with a slight hint of confusion and curiosity.

It was exactly what Edmund was looking for. 

“Have you come to a verdict?”

“Close, I think. Wouldn’t mind a little less noise to sort things out, though,” he said casually, before placing his glass back on the counter. It wasn’t finished, but he was. Taking up the book he’d set down, he tucked it into the crook of his arm and looked back up. 

He was met with those eyes again—such an impossible blue—and for half a second, he very nearly stayed. Bright and warm, they said too much, and Edmund wanted to know every word. But they were a distraction here, in a dingy pub that was already overcrowded rather early in the span of the night. 

“Thanks, again.”

He left before he could change his mind, knowing full well he was already a bit on edge at how messily he’d handled things. As if he had suddenly forgotten himself just because of a simple pair of eyes. 

Maybe he was out of practice.

Edmund was not ashamed to prefer the company of men, but this world was not quite so accommodating of that freedom as Narnia had been, and he hadn’t wanted to add to his worries in the last few years with as many secrets as he had. 

Still, as rusty as he might have been in laying out a proposition for himself, Edmund caught himself lingering as he walked out. It may have been a half-assed attempt to entice the other man, but Edmund still wanted it to have worked. 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long, as soon, the door squeaked open. Hurried but light footsteps joined his in the night. 

He kept pace reasonably well with Edmund, somewhere between five and ten steps behind him. But the alcohol had him buzzing, anxious at knowing he hadn’t completely ruined his own night. So instead of continuing down to the privacy of his booked room, Edmund turned down a side street before thinking too hard about it. The stone against his back was comfortable, calming, and he waited there for exactly eight seconds before steady footfalls caught up and he leaned forward to reach out. 

He hadn’t expected the man to be so eager, falling into the shadows with as much urgency as Edmund himself had used to pull him in. They crashed into one another, and Edmund groaned, unexpectedly hitting the wall behind him. He felt dazed for a moment, surprised to see a glint of gold directly ahead of him, glowing softly. 

Then, in a blink, it was gone, and Edmund couldn’t see much more than the outline of a face in the dark hovering above him. He almost laughed at the sudden hesitance he felt brimming under the man’s gaze. 

“Don’t worry,” he breathed, brushing a soft bottom lip with his thumb. “I won’t break.”

The kiss turned them both desperate all at once, but Edmund was hardly complaining. He was too busy, bringing his hands up along the rest of his jaw and into his hair. Cropped as short as it was, Edmund hadn’t expected for it to be so soft. His fingers curled into what length there was, easing a fragile whimper from the lips pressed against his own.

The other man’s hands weren’t idle, and Edmund felt them slide along the layers of his clothes, fingers slipping just barely inside the collar of his coat, past his shirt, to bare skin. It felt like a brand, his touch was so hot, but Edmund leaned into the burn of it as it trailed down his torso. He relished the warmth in the cold winter night. Palms rough against the fabric of his clothes, heat burned through to his skin until the man’s hands found purchase on Edmund’s hips, the grip fixing him to the wall.

He’d forgotten what this felt like. Too often, his partners had been careful, cautious, and soft. It was the price that often came with the slender frame he preferred. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he’d missed the intensity of an exchange like this where there was a proper give and take.

Edmund let out a ragged groan at the sudden but gentle nip along his collarbone. He slipped his hands down along the man’s shoulders in response, pleased to find them quite broad and firm. When he pushed to reverse their positions, he was rewarded with a soft moan. He smothered it with a kiss and drank in the feel of the man’s body, long and lean and narrow, now trapped between against the wall. 

He liked this. Their bodies pressed against each other, mouths demanding and desperate, hands roaming. He even liked the disapproving whine that came when, suddenly, he pulled back at the unwelcome noise down toward the street.

Instinctively, Edmund slipped a hand between them, bringing it up to cover the man’s mouth as he listened harder for the sound that had caught his attention. It had come from beyond the turn at the open end of the alley. A voice bouncing across the brick and through the night. The crunch of snow underfoot. Two men drawing close. 

“Hey, you coming?”

He frowned at the voice, noting something familiar about it, but it didn’t come from the man whose figure came into vague focus at the edge of the alleyway—the outline wasn’t one he recognized. 

Edmund waited until the man started up again—thankfully moving on without a word or a glance down the alley into the shadows. The last thing he needed was to be found. 

In another life, he might have thanked his luck. But Edmund no longer believed in such things, and, as soon as they were clearly alone once more, he dropped his hand and shuffled back to adjust his coat. Alcohol had made him impatient, certainly, but he wasn’t stupid. If they were going to fumble around in the dark, they should at least be comfortable and away from the danger of prying eyes.

“Come on,” he said, voice rough while he leaned down to pick up his book. Poor thing had already soaked up the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've gone back and forth a few times about whether i want to post the extension of this interaction with merlin and edmund. if i do, it'll be externally, in a separate work, for the sake of not adjusting ratings and the like.
> 
> as always, kudos or comments are loved, and i'm always up for company on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> new chapter next monday!


	4. FRANCE/FINCHLEY. LATE JANUARY 1945

“What do you think, Arthur?”

It was a quiet night in France. A welcome change from the constant noise of the battlefield that was only aided by a light dusting of snow on the ground. But the evening’s calm did nothing to help Arthur’s thoughts settle. They’d been focused on the recurring dreams and memories of Merlin. 

Normally, Arthur felt he had a good handle on the memories of his past life. Even being at war, where he felt particularly burdened by the unknown, he managed. But the images of Merlin in particular had been flitting across his mind ceaselessly for weeks now. All across the country, popping up again and again. 

There were others. There had always been others. But Merlin had been the only constant, and the only person he knew, without a doubt, was out there, somewhere in this world and time, waiting. It made Arthur’s desire to find him so strong tonight, that he didn’t register Peter’s voice until he reached out and set a hand carefully on his shoulder. 

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Good, I’m good.” He ignored the look on Peter’s face. They’d known each other for over a year now, and still, Arthur found the other man’s perceptive ability to be a bit unnerving at times. By now at least, he knew it would only take a moment for the disbelief to fade.

“Come on. I want to get out of the cold.”

They pushed on down the street, headed for the pub at the end of the road. The other boys were already there, if Arthur had heard their earlier chatter properly. He hadn’t been focused then, either, though that wasn’t so much a result of the distraction of Merlin as it was the knowledge of how the night would unfold.

The actions of the other soldiers they tended to travel with while on leave had become rather rote, especially since Peter had joined them. Often the boys would go on ahead, leaving Arthur and Peter to catch up, and by the time they finally did, the others were well on their way to merriment between the alcohol and food. It helped them deal with the oddity that was Peter Pevensie, so Arthur didn’t blame them. 

Of everyone he had come across in this war, Peter was, by far, the strangest curiosity. 

He insisted on calling everyone by their first name, brushing against unwanted intimacy. He was unnaturally quick on his feet and completely deadly in a brawl. Most disturbing was that way in which he appeared so naturally at ease in a battle, as though there was no difference between live fire and the spot or two of quiet calm. 

The way Arthur saw it, Peter scared the other men. 

It seemed that way for the officers above them, too, from what little he’d managed to overhear of their discussions when Peter joined their unit. 

Lieutenant Pevensie did not get hurt during training, not even when the other boys set out one night to intentionally bruise him up a bit—a sort of hazing, gone wrong. 

The fight had ended with a broken collar bone, two twisted ankles, and a mess of blood and bruises. Pevensie himself walked away with only a split lip and the strange but undeniable respect from his companions. From his superiors, even. It was a respect mixed with the fear of knowing he could have done so much worse, and yet chose not to. 

When they first met, face to face, though, Arthur understood what the others could not.

To most, he and the other young recruits were often seen as boys, desperate to prove their worth as men. At first glance, Peter was the same, but he quickly turned out to be more. 

He spoke charmingly, but always with a hint of power, as if he could pull every eye in the room to him with grace. He was respectful to everyone, but disregarded orders as he pleased. Not often, but when necessary, claiming he knew better—and, surprisingly, his plans often worked out for the benefit of all involved. 

In short, Peter was like Arthur, both of them seemingly far older and certainly wiser, trapped in young men’s bodies. Of course, there was the difference that Arthur also had an entire lifetime as a king to aid his age and wisdom. But, as there were plenty of reasons why a person would have to step up and grow into a man before explicitly necessary, Arthur did not ask Peter for his story. A man was entitled to his own past, and Arthur did not want to reveal his.

Peter took some getting used to, of course—charming one moment and vicious the next. But the shift was often lightning quick and was never uncalled for. His judgement was sound, as if granted by years of experience. That, specifically, was what made Arthur trust him, to consider him as close to an equal as was possible.

Still, there was that difference between them, and there was nothing he could do about it. On nights like tonight, it caused problems.

“Hey, you coming?”

Arthur blinked, having realized that he’d stopped again. Flustered, but more annoyed with himself for having gotten distracted, Arthur pressed on down the street to catch up with Peter.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He was a good man. A good friend, even. But there was only so much you could tell a man, even in wartime, without running the risk of being considered insane. 

“Fine,” Arthur said with a light smile, forcing himself to shift from one train of thought to another, to something vaguely safer. “Just realized something is all. Did we ever write back to your sister after you got better?”

He grinned a bit wider as Peter’s face blanched. This was a side of him that the others rarely saw. The side Arthur felt lucky to know. For all his apparent savagery, Peter was devastatingly sentimental when it came to his family.

“Guess not, then,” Arthur chuckled, as they reached the pub. “Should probably do that before we head out. Let her know you’re alive.”

“You should do it.” 

He raised an eyebrow, curious at Peter’s tone. “Scared?”

“Just common courtesy. You wrote to tell her I was sick. Your responsibility to tell her I’m fine now.”

“You told me to write to her in the first place!”

Peter quirked an eyebrow, but the amusement was clear in his eyes. “I was delirious, Arthur. Half out of my mind from that fever. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You insisted! Even told me what to write!”

“Doesn’t change anything. You should be the one to tell her the good news.”

Arthur groaned. The initial request had been strange, but he’d had stranger. This fell somewhere in between. 

“Cheer up, mate. I won’t dictate this one.”

He rolled his eyes, but appreciated the trust, at least. 

His letter to Susan had been choppy and formal in a way Arthur hadn’t understood any more than he grasped the context of half the things Peter directed him to write down. It was so odd, he’d gone so far as to add a short post-script, confessing the true circumstances of the entire experience. Then, he promised that Peter would be just fine, despite knowing he couldn’t go around promising people anything, let alone the safety and wellbeing of their loved ones. 

Still, something about the situation had called for it, and Arthur had felt obliged to grant that kindness. Afterward, he felt foolish. It had only been a fever, from a relatively mild bout of pneumonia that resulted from Peter’s own stubbornness. And yet, now, weeks after the fact, he felt a strange need to defend himself and his earlier choices. 

“I’m holding you to that. Still don’t know what you were talking about that night. Sure I can’t get you drunk enough to explain?”

“So you can claim I’m making it all up?” Peter queried, seemingly entertained before he continued on in a light but honest tone. “Trust me. If I ever explain, we’ll both be completely sober. It’s the only way you’d ever believe me.”

Susan turned the cup in her hand, watching the liquid sway before glancing toward the door. The letter still sat on the floor in the front entrance way where she’d dropped it on her way inside. Though addressed to her, it didn’t come from anyone she knew, and, considering the telltale signs of military screening on the envelope, she worried over what it could mean. 

After her second cup, she knew it wasn’t what she feared most. That news came in person, or by telegram. This letter had to be something else.

“Oh, you’re being ridiculous.” Susan muttered to herself, setting her cup aside forcefully to cross back to the door.

Arthur King wrote with a steady hand, and, as soon as she started to take in what he’d written, she discovered that he was either an incredibly good friend or a horribly gullible man—very possibly both. Though, she supposed some of the blame lay with Peter.

The better part of the letter seemed to come from her older brother entirely, that much she could put together from the words and phrasing alone. But even if she hadn’t, there was an additional few lines toward the end that explained the situation in full.

_Miss Pevensie,_

_I apologize for the unfortunate news, but your brother was adamant that you get this letter. If he hadn’t been quite so stubborn as to push himself so far the other day, he would be able to write to you himself._

_It is nothing serious, and he should be well again soon, no doubt. Your brother is a tenacious fellow, and quite determined to make it home to you and your family. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for him once he gets better so he can do just that._

_You have my word._

_Arthur_

Susan wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the letter, at least not the latter half of it. It was exactly like Peter to overestimate what energy he had left and get himself sick. And even more in character for him to have someone else write out his correspondence for him. At the very least, Arthur seemed to have a good head on his shoulders, enough to recognize the idiocy in that. 

The letter sat on her kitchen table for several days, tucked back into its envelope but not put away with the others. Susan wasn’t sure what to make of it, really. It was, all things considered, an entirely unnecessary letter. She appreciated the update, of course, and knew full well that Peter only had Arthur write in his stead because he knew she would worry if she did not hear from him that month. It was their own agreement that Peter was holding himself to, or rather involving Arthur in. For that alone, the letter was worth keeping.

What intrigued Susan enough to leave it out, though, was Arthur’s own additions. His promise did not come at Peter’s suggestion—her brother was too smart for that—and it made her wonder at what could have possibly provoked him to be giving his word to something so far outside his own control. 

Blind hope was dangerous enough on its own, she didn’t need empty promises to raise the stakes higher.

And yet, she did appreciate it. 

Susan felt reassured to know that someone was up for the responsibility, though she was, perhaps, a bit uncertain whether Arthur could be trusted to hold up his end of the bargain. Edmund and Lucy were the only ones she would likely ever truly trust in that regard, but as neither were anywhere near Peter as far as she knew, Susan wasn’t so sure she had any other choice. 

When she finally sat down to write, it was Arthur she addressed her letter to, not Peter.

_Arthur,_

_Thank you for writing. I appreciate the news, despite its poor nature. I can only hope that my brother is well now and that he, you, and your unit are safe and remain that way. It would be an unfortunate development to find that you are unable to make good on your promise._

_Peter can tell you, should you like to ask him, but we Pevensies take our promises quite seriously—a habit left over from our younger years. I hope you are up for the task you have pledged yourself to. I am certain that neither the war, nor Peter I’m afraid, will make it easy for you._

_Best of luck,_

_Susan_

_P.S. Please, there is no need for formalities. Just Susan will be fine._

It was short, but Arthur was no more than a stranger at this point. Perhaps half an acquaintance, known in nothing more than words on a page. 

She trusted Peter’s trust in him, particularly given that he must have been quite delirious in dictating his portion of Arthur’s letter. 

Susan scanned it again with a slight smile, surprised to find that she was not upset by Peter’s reference to Lucy’s healing cordial. She supposed it helped that Arthur had little reason to understand what he had written at Peter’s direction. Her brother wouldn’t have explained it, even with a fever-addled brain, and it was more than could be properly explained in a letter, if the urge ever struck Susan.

She laughed softly at the thought, sealing up her letter. 

It was one thing for Peter to reveal something small like this—something curious but not too far out of the ordinary as a special medicinal liqueur—to someone who didn’t seem the type to ask questions, but another thing altogether for Susan to unpack the entirety of the world and the life she’d had. 

She had discovered in the past few months, since Edmund’s last visit, that Narnia was easier and easier to ignore. True, her conversation with Edmund in the fall had brought the world bubbling up to the surface of her mind again, but it hadn’t stayed there for long. In fact, she had done rather well in regards to keeping her memories in check. 

She’d spent the years since their second return back from Narnia determined to make something of the life she still had. It had taken her some time to reach that decision, but once she’d gotten there, it remained fixed in her mind. 

She didn’t just want to focus on what she had left after everything else had been ripped away. She wanted peace of mind. She wanted to lose herself enough to find a home. 

That she could read this letter and even reference their years in Narnia in her own response, to a stranger no less—not that Arthur would ever suspect anything close to the truth from her wording—was a sign she was inching closer to reaching that goal.

The alternative was illusory, and she rejected the possibility of it solely out of her own stubbornness. She did not want to admit to her own blindness.

A life of practicality and necessity had taught her to see all the possible outcomes, but the fear that had come from the loss of that life had caused Susan to begin discounting any and all future possibilities she did not like.

It wasn’t like her, honestly, but she had gotten so adept at ignoring the warning signs when they appeared that she could no longer recognize them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse for giving Arthur the last name King. heh...  
> anyways, kudos and comments make the world go round (:  
> or come chat with me on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> new chapter next monday!


	5. GERMANY. EARLY MARCH 1945

Arthur hadn’t expected a letter from Susan to arrive addressed to him, specifically. At most, he expected for Peter to pull him aside to tell him Susan had said something of his penmanship. But the truth was, he hadn’t expected any letters at all, given there was hardly anyone for him to write to at home. Many of his friends had dispersed among the ranks of the armed forces just as he had, and he wasn’t sure if they were even alive anymore. Even his father had gone not long after the last war. 

To have anyone to write to was a surprise. That a response, and it’s subsequent ongoing correspondence, had come out of fever-induced insanity was something else entirely. But, he supposed, that was what war did. It pushed the boundaries of what was to be expected and what was not. 

Susan Pevensie fell somewhere in between. 

She was polite and succinct, well-mannered and proper in all the ways expected of civilized discussion. Not quite to the extent of upper society—Arthur knew the Pevensies were not quite so well off from the stories Peter had told him—but every word was polished, hand-chosen, and specific. She played the part well, while still somehow presenting a more amusing and loftier nature in a way that felt truly genuine. 

He couldn’t quite describe it, but she seemed both stately and modest. Both above her brother’s antics and also full-heartedly entwined in the spirit of them. In a word, she was puzzling, but in a decidedly less aggravating way than her brother—though perhaps that had more to do with the fact that Arthur and Peter were in such close proximity that there were times when all they could do was annoy one another.

Despite his initial confusion and his caution, Arthur was glad to have heard from Susan. If nothing else, it provided a bit of insight into Peter. Though he wasn’t actively prying into it, Arthur was curious about the boy’s life. Susan’s too, now. The Pevensies were a mystery he was very quickly wrapping himself up in, with little caution.

_Susan,_

_I hope you’ve received my more recent note, regarding Peter’s condition. But in the chance you have not, please be reassured that he’s doing quite well now. In fact, he seems keen to prove your point—he’s a bit unpredictable, your brother. Luckily, he is also just as capable of protecting himself as he is of getting into trouble, which may help me in my endeavor to keep my promise to you._

_It was a hasty commitment, I’ll admit. But I don't regret it. You brother’s a good man, and a good friend. This war is of a complicated sort, and there isn’t often much in the way of good times. Your brother has a knack for lifting spirits, and I would be glad to have his friendship whether we faced a war or not._

He had thought, fleetingly, of stopping there, but as he had in his first letter, he felt compelled to say more. As though finally having someone to talk to beyond the boys in the unit prompted a sort of confessional for him. It wasn’t that he wanted to burden Susan with anything, but rather that he felt, strangely, that she would take the time to hear what he had to say.

In the following weeks, Arthur came into a routine he hadn’t expected for himself—crafting his letters as many of the other men did. He would write until the day grew dark, scratching out the words carefully against the uneven surface of his own legs. Some letters he wrote while tucked against the wall of a trench, some from the relative comfort of his own bunk, and still some he wrote entirely in his head, committing them to memory while they dragged their heels through the mud just so he could copy the words out onto spare paper the minute he had the time. 

Susan’s letters, he was pleased to find, were as varied as his own. In some, they discussed the war. In others, they talked of their childhoods. But no matter what the letters held, Arthur felt a sense of solace at reading every one of Susan’s replies. 

There was an easygoing acceptance in her words, despite the brevity of their discussions. He never felt the need to explain more than the barest minimum and he didn’t dare mention specifics—not where the war was concerned—and yet she always understood.

There was a slight discomfort in the extent of her understanding. Arthur did not like the idea of a woman knowing the tragedy of war, but the concern was often so quickly replaced by a resounding calm that Arthur wasn’t always sure he truly felt upset by what Susan knew and what she didn’t. More than anything, the way she managed to anticipate exactly what he would most need to hear baffled him.

And there again was the mystery of the Pevensies. They each had a knowledge beyond what seemed possible. Even what Susan and Peter shared about their younger siblings seemed to say as much. An over-eager physician in one, by Susan’s description, and, by Peter’s, a quiet but reliable partner in the other. 

Mystery or not, in time, the letters he tucked into the lining of his jacket formed a comfortable weight against his chest, no longer just a single sheet but several. Each kept safe against his heart. Or perhaps they kept his heart safe. 

It was a bit foolish to care so much for a woman he had yet to meet, but he wasn’t concerned. He knew already what Susan was like, just from the time and care she took in writing him. 

Her words made him feel less war-torn. Less lonesome, whether among the other men or by himself. It wasn’t a peace, exactly—Arthur wasn’t sure he remembered what that felt like, to be honest—but it was something close, perhaps. 

Even his need to find Merlin had diminished in the time he had been writing with Susan. A quiet echo of a deeper longing, as though the man was no longer in danger—from what, Arthur was not sure.

He hadn’t gone so far as to tell Susan about that particular truth, of course. He did not doubt her character or think that she would not hear him out, at the very least. But his being a king was not something to be shared with just anyone, whether they were likely to believe him or not. And so, Arthur kept the bond he felt with Merlin, and the truth of his being, to himself. It was safer, anyhow. It would raise too many questions to admit that he felt so strong a connection to someone who—technically speaking—wasn’t even entirely confirmed to be out there, somewhere.

Arthur knew he was, of course. But explaining even that knowledge was tricky. There was no evidence beyond the memories of his past life and his own convictions. Arthur simply knew Merlin was alive, felt it in his bones. There could be no other alternative. 

If there was, Arthur wasn’t ready for it. Could not fathom it. He wasn’t sure he could manage that sort of loss. He’d dreamed of Camelot and the knights, and of Morgana and Gwen since he was a child. And though there were clearly some memories that came from a time before Merlin had entered his life, the man was the only constant in all the other memories that permeated Arthur’s mind. 

Merlin was the most solid of all his haunts. As such, he was the only one Arthur felt sure was out there, waiting for him. The others sometimes, but rarely elicited the same kind of pull in his heart, and when they did, they only ever managed it in conjunction with Merlin somehow. Like he was the lynchpin to their existence, the one that held them together.

Arthur had never once thought the servant-turned-sorcerer would leave his side in Camelot without reason, and that feeling had only grown stronger in this lifetime, particularly since the war began. It was as if the turmoil of the world strengthened their bond. He supposed that wasn’t too far off—theirs was a tether forged of destiny and doom, loss and legacy. Merlin was someone he needed to find. 

Yet, no matter how loud the call came to him, it was absurd for Arthur to think he could announce it to anyone, much less to Susan—who, he loathed to admit, was someone he’d yet to meet—no matter if she seemed to grasp his nature more wholly than most others. 

There were simply some parts of himself better kept hidden. He hated keeping secrets, especially with the Pevensies who he thought might possibly not think him entirely insane. Peter carried himself as though he stood apart from all the others, and Susan’s stark understanding of the world told Arthur much the same about her. As though they were different, and thus would understand something as outlandish as Arthur’s existence.

But after a childhood chock full of embarrassing moments and unnecessary arguments over stories and memories he knew to be real despite the lack of credible proof, Arthur had no other choice but to remain guarded with Susan and Peter alike. Not just for fear of ridicule, but also because the topic of Arthur’s kingship was meant for face-to-face discussion. He did not have the right words to put down on paper for Susan, and, despite having plenty of opportunity with Peter—whether trudging through muddy fields or forests—Arthur never felt the circumstances were quite right.

It was the same with telling Peter of his letters to Susan, though perhaps that was more guided by the fact that if he knew anything about Peter, anything at all, it was that there was nothing he would not do for his siblings. With that knowledge, Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to mention his correspondence with Susan. After all, Peter likely hadn’t intended for anything to come of Arthur penning that first letter for him. He didn’t seem the matchmaking type, nor one to risk that sort of thing in the middle of a war.

War turned out to be nothing like Lucy remembered. Echoes from the fields below were drowned out by the plane they flew out on, and all she was left with was the view—unending stretches of land scored by death. After being dropped in Germany, Lucy learned the battlefields spanned entire fields and full ridge lines. And between the various camps were the miles and miles of bloody expanse. 

The entire continent was a speckled graveyard. 

She only had her memories to thank for not becoming sick at the sight of it all. The girls with her, the last four of the nearly two dozen who had left England together, all noted her fortitude. The truth was less impressive. Lucy was not above death, nor was she particularly strong. She had simply spent too much of her other life buried in it.

As she had in Narnia, Lucy became a natural leader among her companions. Even when there was a doctor stationed with them, she took the helm and directed the other girls to their tasks as would best ensure continuous and steady work. And when they grew tired, Lucy only worked harder.

When her superiors told her they wanted to send her to the liberated prisoners’ camps, they said it was because of her grit. They needed all the help they could get, but none of the others were prepared for it the way Lucy was. To prove them right, she fell headlong into her work when they made it to the first camp. 

The patients—men, women and children in various states of sickness and malnourishment—were innumerable. 

They all had their work cut out for them, but while on a few minutes’ break her first evening, Lucy was shocked to see a familiar face among the soldiers they were working with. 

He wore a soldier’s uniform, but the white band around his arm was clearly visible, and he certainly looked better suited to the tasks of medicine than that of guarding the area and their staff.

Objectively, Lucy knew he couldn’t be the same doctor she’d met in Finchley. That man had been in his forties, with slowly greying hair and deep lines around his eyes. This soldier was decidedly younger, and there was a distinctly brighter sensation about him than there ever had been around the older man she’d met only a few years back. 

Still, they looked similar, even from a distance: untidy hair, high cheekbones, broad shoulders.

They properly crossed paths the next day, between the two tents that served as their quarters. Lucy was finishing up a hurried meal, and he seemed to be catching a moment to himself. When he noticed her, the change in his demeanor was instant, weariness shifting easily into an awkward introduction. It was then that she learned that he shared the same name as the doctor he reminded her of.

“Merlin?” she repeated softly. “That’s so strange.”

He laughed softly, a bit of pink touching his cheeks. “I know, it’s not a very common name.”

“No, but…” she started. “Well, you actually remind me of another Merlin I knew a few years ago, quite a bit.”

“I do?” he asked, tilting his head for a moment before something akin to recognition flashed over his face. “Oh! You wouldn’t be from the London area, would you?”

Lucy frowned, intrigue growing. “Yes. Finchley.”

He smiled then, bright and wide, and she couldn’t help but let her suspicion fade, just a bit. “You must have met my uncle. We’ve got the same name. It’s a bit of a family tradition.” 

“Oh! Well that’s great! Is he well?” She’d wondered about the doctor from time to time in the past few years. Missed him during her shifts at the hospital in the last few months before she left.

“I suspect so,” Merlin answered. “He wasn’t home for long. Neither was I, actually.”

“No? Where did he go?”

“To the front somewhere,” he answered easily. “Same as you, apparently.”

Lucy nodded absently, momentarily quiet as she considered their circumstances. The world could be rather small, at times, particularly with luck like hers. But it seemed somewhat too convenient that the Merlin in front of her now was related to the Merlin she’d known before.

But it was what she wanted, at least to some extent, wasn’t it? She’d hoped for some connection between the two when she first noticed this Merlin, just the day before. Right?

“Are you alright?”

Lucy blinked and found such genuine concern in the lines of Merlin’s face that she flushed.

“Yes, yes. Sorry. I just—”

“Miss Pevensie!” Lucy’s head snapped up, turned toward the sound. Ms. Welther’s voice cut through the weight of death like siren song. “There you are! I’ll need your hands. Come along!” 

She turned back to Merlin quickly, tossing him a soft smile. “Sorry.”

He seemed not to be bothered, until they heard Ms. Welther’s voice again, this time calling for Merlin as well.

“You too, medic! Bring all the bandages you can find!”

Lucy watched the gentle smile fall from his face and was riveted by the immediate change in his expression—from cautious mirth to focused resolve.

It was like seeing her own emotion laid out in front of her. 

“Lucy?”

She started, realizing belatedly, that he had stopped, waiting for her. “Sorry, coming!”

She made a point to form an easy partnership with Merlin after that. Not that it was difficult. He and his unit traveled with them, from camp to camp for a few weeks. Setting up and assisting as best as they could to help the remaining survivors back to some semblance of a normal life. Lucy found working with him as easy and comfortable as it had been to work with his uncle, and with them, the days seemed bright despite the bleak despair in the camps. 

Merlin kept his head up as he did his part to help, constantly smiling, so Lucy did as well. It was what her fellow nurses expected of her at this point. Hardened to death and dying despite her age and armed with a fierce determination to see every patient through to their end, she knew they considered her to be shielded against the horrors of it in some unnatural way. 

Still, no armor could have protected her from what she saw at Bergen-Belsen, just two days after those inside were liberated. Not even her experience in Narnia could have prepared her for it. 

It was the smell that got to her first. The undeniable scent of rotting, burnt flesh, far fresher here than any of the other camps, even buried under the heavy weight of fire. It turned her stomach and twisted her heart anew, staying with her as she picked her way through cramped quarters to visit patients. Many of the men and women were still too weak to leave, even just to the temporary tents they’d set up nearby, and the stench pushed Lucy over the edge.

That first evening, she sat outside her own bunk, vomiting up her dinner into a spare bucket. The taste of the meager meal was somehow blander this second time.

“Here.”

She looked up to find Merlin, holding a wet washcloth out for her. Lucy smiled weakly, accepting it.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s just…” She didn’t have the words, if she was honest with herself. What could she say that wouldn’t sound trite or juvenile? He knew what it was like, he knew what she felt. She knew he did, because she’d seen him steal moments for himself throughout the day just to breathe. Moments when he didn’t have to force himself to smile, or be quite as uplifting as he was with the survivors of the camp under their care. 

“Well, you know.”

He nodded, seemingly only partially there as he contemplated something silently, considering her carefully as he did so. But she was quick to recognize the reason behind those cautious eyes. She’d seen it often in recent weeks, in the eyes of other soldiers who hovered around the nurses at mealtimes, or other quiet hours, striking up conversation as a means of distraction because there was nothing more they could do to ease the burden the women had taken upon themselves.

To see the same look in Merlin’s face was… a bit disheartening, to say the least. But Lucy was patient, preparing her usual answer as she waited for this soldier, like all the others, to ask after her age and the necessity of her being somewhere so gruesome. 

Instead, he asked, “Do you know anything about King Arthur?”

She turned properly to face him, surprised. He was almost too bright with that smile against the dreary sky, and Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. She should have expected as much, honestly. “Your uncle told me some stories. Is this another family tradition?”

“Well, with a name like ours, it seemed appropriate,” he joked, smiling before he launched into a new story, one Lucy hadn’t heard before, about Sir Lancelot and a portal between the worlds of the living and the dead. 

The days at the camp came easier after that, between their work and the stories. Mostly they shared between themselves, but also with the patients from time to time. Lucy had discovered long ago to take advantage of the fact that no one seemed to believe her when she talked about Narnia. She didn’t tell just anyone, of course, but she was less strict about who she trusted with her adventures than her siblings were. And, as had been the case with his uncle, Lucy felt Merlin was someone who just might believe her if she were to tell him her stories were true. 

Sometimes, she even wondered if he didn’t already know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was, at one point, a whole bunch more to the letters between arthur and susan here, but i decided i wanted to cover a few more personal things with arthur here so i left the letters for later. they'll come back, i promise! also, the lucy+merlin friendship is one of my favorite things ever. i write it into everything lol
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! (:  
> also, i'm on tumblr: [@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)  
> new chapter next monday!


	6. FINCHLEY/OXFORD. MID-APRIL 1945

The ring of the bell at the door was soft. It was the only excuse Susan could claim for not realizing a customer had come in. Luckily, Arianne had met the woman herself, and Susan was free, for the moment, to return to her latest letter from Arthur. 

She looked forward to them. Perhaps more than she was willing to admit. She spoke of them to no one, typically reading them in the privacy of her own home. But there had been a delay with the post as of late and she had been too eager to wait when she saw Arthur’s familiar scrawl fall through the slot at home, just as she was leaving.

In the months since first hearing from Arthur, Susan’s life had fallen into a routine. Early on, she continued to work at the florist’s shop during the day and met with Malcolm frequently. More often lately, however, she found herself thinking more about the boy from Manchester than the one from New York, reading and rereading Arthur’s letters after shorter nights out with Malcolm.

In some, they talked of family and friends—though Susan had yet to mention Malcolm in her writing—but in others, they talked of the war. Never in terms of strategy, but in broader detail. The letter she held in her hand now, was one such letter.

_I wonder, sometimes, where I might be if this war had not called to me. What sort of man I’d be if I had not joined up. I don’t confess to hating it. This war. I’m doing my duty after all, and it feels right to be here alongside the others, alongside your brother. But it also seems strange to think that springtime would be blooming across the country now, if I was home. It was my favorite time of year, seeing the lilies grow across the back countryside._

She almost laughed, looking at the various flowers in bloom around her. She’d yet to explain that she spent her days at a florist’s shop, surrounded by the very spring he was describing—though they had more than just lilies. Susan could hear Arianne talking up the peonies now, in fact.

_We see flashes of the seasons here, I suppose, buried in dirt and rock. Pockets of grass here and there, doing what they can to avoid dying. They’ve brave, I think, to keep trying to live._

The ring of the register sounded, and Susan glanced up, quickly. But she was safe still, tucked against the back of the shop with her thoughts and Arthur’s. 

She couldn’t quite pinpoint when, or how, but the nature of her correspondence with Arthur had shifted in recent weeks. This was something different. Something deeper and more personal than their discussions of the past.

_I like to think I’d still be doing something worthwhile, if I were home. Something meaningful, though I’m not quite sure what. It’s strangely comfortable at war, knowing what to do and where to go and how to survive. Your brother says I’m a natural leader, and I’d think him crazy if he were the only one. But he isn’t, and I don’t know what to make of it. I am not sure I want to be good at war and death._

Arthur had a way of speaking, or rather, of writing that reminded her of Narnia—not from her last visit, but from her time as queen. He reminded her of Sir Peridan and Lady Asena, who had become her closest confidants—friends beyond what she had ever deserved. They had had a knack for toeing the line between treating her as a friend and regarding her as queen. It was, she thought, the respect laced into the comfortable and steady meter of his words. Respect for her, but also for the topic at hand, no matter the situation. 

He reminded her of a life she had tried her best not to remember. But that afternoon, she found it difficult to set those memories aside. They were all she could think about as she skirted through her responsibilities at the shop. And even as she rushed home afterward, eager for her desk to write a response.

More than Arthur’s ability to bring these memories to the forefront of her mind was the startling realization that, as with the mention of Lucy’s cordial from his first letter, Susan did not shy away from these memories, but welcomed them instead. They were like a loose thread; to pull on it was to discover that it did not end. 

But where she had previously been looking at Narnia in the whole—a love ripped from her grasp, twice, without warning or promise of return—stepping closer now, the pieces of the picture cut at her less. Easier to take in and relive.

They were fond enough experiences, individually, and the past few weeks had brought her closer to a bittersweet truth. It wasn’t Narnia she missed, exactly, but the way she’d felt while she was there—admired and beloved, comfortable in her own skin. She missed the way she’d learned to love her queendom and gained joy and confidence from it. 

But most of all, she missed the permission she’d given herself to be happy. And these letters seemed to push her back in that direction. Toward the ability and courage to express a vulnerability she hadn’t felt safe enough to feel, let alone convey to others since being in Narnia. 

It seemed odd to feel so safe with Arthur, of all people. It felt a bit like baring her soul to a stranger, no matter that the words she wrote back to him that evening were more contrived. Wrapped up in the guise of the war he fought and she despised. 

_I wonder, too, what life would be like, if this war had not taken my father, or sent my siblings and I to the countryside for the summer, years ago. But the person I’ve become… Well, I’ve fought these years. Perhaps not in the way you and countless others have and currently are, but I’ve fought nonetheless, and I’m quite fond of the person I’ve become because of it._

_We have all sacrificed a part of ourselves—killed a hope or dream or desire—in the name of survival. But there is no shame in surviving, Arthur, if it means you will get to see a proper Spring again soon. Just remember: Who we are and who we need to be to survive can be two very different people. Do not get lost in the valley between._

_Take care,_

_Susan_

From the moment Merlin had seen Lucy again, no more than a month ago now, he had been working out a plan to leave the front. What he hadn’t anticipated at the time, was that she would come with him.

He couldn’t believe it when he first saw her again, but his panic subsided quicker than he would have thought. She was older now but just as vibrant and lovely, even in the midst of war, and it was hard not to feel reassured by her presence, though he _had_ been concerned at first—she very clearly remembered him from before.

Merlin explained their prior encounter away as best as he could, fabricating an uncle to stand in for his older self, along with an ailing mother who managed to pass peacefully with Uncle Merlin’s care. Where was the doctor now, she’d asked, to which he hadn’t any answer but the truth: at war. 

He couldn’t be sure whether she believed him or not, but there wasn’t time to worry. They spent the month since tending to various patients at various camps and for awhile, he forgot his plans to leave. 

Then they reached Bergen-Belsen, and he returned to his plans with vigor, this time with consideration for Lucy too. 

They both had strong stomachs for the realities of death and the consequences of war, but everyone had their limit. 

Hers was the body count at the recently liberated camp. 

Merlin’s was the look on her face after she’d seen the pits. 

So he did the only thing he could think of and tinkered with military records and staffing requests late one night, managing to get them both sent as far from the front as he could manage without suspicion. 

Lucy had mentioned one of her brothers was at Oxford, and, knowing that family often soothed better than anyone else, Merlin had them both sent to assist at the hospital there. His papers were simple enough, since they were falsified to begin with. For Lucy, he only had to convince dispatch that the hospital was understaffed and they were the best choices. It was hardly a difficult task. 

Even finding a flat proposed more of a hardship. On such short notice, it was tricky to find a suitable place. But more than the timing was Lucy’s insistence that they live together. Merlin himself, didn’t mind, but several of the men and women they saw about leasing an apartment were appalled at the proposed indecency—as if there were still room for such an opinion in wartime. 

It may have eased their minds to know Merlin preferred the company of men, but there was also the law to consider. So, eventually, he resorted to a bit of magical persuasion in securing their flat. 

It was a modest one and was no farther from the hospital than it was from the main hall at Oxford. They’d yet to properly decorate, but it was comfortably furnished and, for the foreseeable future, it was their home. 

The adjustment back to civilian life was as it always was for Merlin: sudden but not unwelcome. He was surprisingly comfortable here, no longer constantly covered in a thick layer of grime and sweat, or surrounded by pain and death, at least not while at home. At the hospital, certainly. But there was an end to his shift every day when he could leave and return to the quaint little flat he shared with Lucy.

Merlin had stuck out the difficulties of war longer, in the last one. But he’d been alone then and more focused on finding Arthur. It was startling, sometimes, to realize how much had changed.

For example, he hadn’t anticipated to find a quiet moment to read in such a time of war. And yet, he sat comfortably in their flat one afternoon only a few days after they’d moved in, book in hand until Lucy called out to him.

“Merlin, could you get the door? Should be Edmund. I’ll be right there!” 

He frowned, but it was obvious he’d missed the knock in favor of his book. In truth, he’d nearly forgotten they were expecting anyone at all, let alone Lucy’s brother. 

She’d come home that morning, after an early excursion to the school grounds, announcing that they would have company just as soon as Edmund finished with his classes for the day. She’d been and still was thrilled, and Merlin could hardly blame her. From everything she’d shared about him, and, more specifically how she’d talked about her brother, Merlin knew they were quite close.

He marked his spot and set the book to the table before crossing the short distance to the door. Merlin was more than ready to welcome their visitor in, but at the sight of him, his smile fell and, abruptly, Merlin shut the door in his face. 

He looked different, but there was no forgetting that face or those lips. Even the look of surprise, one Merlin hadn’t seen before, was somehow familiar. 

“Ed is that… Oh, Merlin what are you doing just standing there?”

Lucy emerged, and he knew she was expecting to see her brother, but Merlin certainly hadn’t been expecting this. Hadn’t thought they would ever cross paths again. The world was large, they were in the middle of a war, and Merlin felt he’d already earned out his luck by meeting Lucy again. 

“Edmund! Come in, come in.” Lucy had reached across him and pulled the door open for her brother, herself. 

He’d recovered quicker than Merlin had. That look of surprise was gone, replaced by a slight smile playing on his lips, and he’d swept some of his hair—longer and bit unkempt but entirely suited to his face—from his eyes. His expression reminded Merlin more of the mysterious man he had met in France and a jolt of apprehension sparked low in his gut. 

“Hello, Lu.” He stepped effortlessly forward as she pulled him in through the door. “Who’s your friend?”

“Merlin!” Lucy announced, beaming at him as she reached back to usher him forward from where he’d retreated. “He’s a medic, or… well, I’m not sure. Are you a doctor now that you’re at the hospital?”

Merlin smiled, a bit feebly. “I’ve always been a physician.”

“A bit young to be a doctor, aren’t you?” Edmund asked, only for Lucy to hit him in the arm. “Ow!”

“He’s older than you are, if you must know. And you’re hardly one to talk! Lying on your en—”

“I know,” he interrupted sharply. “I know. I’m only teasing anyhow.”

Merlin’s breath hitched a bit at the slight gleam in Edmund’s eye. 

“Thought he might be the type not to mind. He is your friend after all.”

Lucy aimed to hit him again, but Edmund sidestepped out of her reach and placed himself, quite cleverly, in front of Merlin.

“Apologies, if I’ve offended you,” he spoke in a level tone, as though he were serious, but there remained a hint of that dangerous charm in his eyes. A glimmer of amusement dancing in the reflection of the room’s amber light. Merlin’s apprehension threatened to bloom into disaster.

“No. It’s, erm… it’s nice to meet you,” he said, remembering, suddenly, how to _be_. “Lucy’s told me so much, already.”

Edmund turned to his sister, allowing Merlin full view of the mirth pulling at the corner of his lips. He wanted, a bit, to touch it. Taste it, perhaps.

“Nothing embarrassing, I hope.”

Lucy grinned wide and shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “Just a couple stories, I promise.”

“You and your stories,” Edmund chuckled.

“Merlin’s got some, too!”

He blinked at the sound of his name, having realized suddenly that he’d been staring.

“Does he now?” Edmund mused, glancing at him as he settled onto the sofa.

“I think you’d like them, actually,” Lucy said. “They’re about King Arthur.”

Edmund laughed, and gods, the way that sounds wormed its way into Merlin’s head and rang there, the memory embedding itself effortlessly.

“Why am I not surprised? With a name like Merlin, you’d have to know something about the Once and Future King.”

“He thinks he’s so smart.” Lucy winked at Merlin and disappeared into the kitchen for the tea, calling back louder, for the both of them. “You haven’t heard these stories, Ed, I’m sure of it.”

He looked at Merlin expectantly. “Is that right?”

Edmund appeared almost relaxed, save for a recognizable stiffness in his neck. It was the kind that came from too many hours hunched over a desk. The kind that made Merlin want to reach for him, to smooth the knots outs under his fingers, but that would only be the beginning of something reckless. 

Merlin fell into the armchair opposite the sofa and forced himself to focus. 

“I suppose it depends on what you’ve heard. But I always felt Geoffrey was a bit… simplistic.”

Lucy returned, bringing the tea, but he only saw the way Edmund’s eyes tracked him as he reached for a cup.

“Tell us one with Gwaine.”

Edmund reached for a cup himself and settled back, entirely unaffected as his sister curled into his side. “Well, you heard the lady.”

Merlin ignored the shiver that ran down his spine at his tone and settled back farther into his chair, as if he could escape. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to breathe. And to think.

Gwaine had been the first of the knights that he’d had introduced to Lucy, and as such, there weren’t many stories of his that she hadn’t heard yet. So he started with the story of Arthur’s Quest for the Fisher King’s Trident, cutting out details of himself in favor of adding others for Gwaine and Arthur to make it more their story than it was his. 

Merlin never told his tales quite as vividly as Lucy told hers, but he told them as accurately as he could remember them—with minor, purposeful amendments. Legends weren’t meant to be true, after all. So he focused on the things he remembered and the things he could not give away, and then tossed up the rest. For Lucy, it was enough. 

For Edmund, there wasn’t enough detail, and he made a point to say as much throughout the night until finally, Lucy dug into Edmund’s side with her fingers to produce a higher pitched yell than Merlin thought was possible for the man. 

“Quit interrogating him. They’re his stories, he’s allowed to tell them how he wants.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting a bit of specificity.”

Merlin watched them squabble good-naturedly, surprised when the realization hit him. 

He liked these two. 

He’d known weeks ago that he was toeing a particularly dangerous line with Lucy by allowing himself to get attached. But Lucy made it impossible not to. And then she’d started on those stories again—though in truth, that had probably been his own fault. He’d brought Arthur up first, after all—and there was no turning back for him. 

He and Lucy had been friends before, and he wanted to be friends again, properly this time. Considering they had met and reconnected in such a time when the chances for lengthy lives and second chances were slim, Merlin had felt justified in throwing caution to the wind when he agreed to live with her.

And, his attraction for Edmund aside, Merlin felt that they too would have gotten on with one another even if they’d only just met that night, simply for how much Lucy adored him.

There was a comfortable and careful respect between them, and both were inordinately proud of one another in a way that warmed Merlin’s heart. It was uncommon for siblings their age, but they both had an air about them that belied their youth. Edmund more than Lucy, with his unnerving quiet. 

Merlin had had a thousand years of chance meetings and short-lived friendships to look back upon, and none had been quite as compelling as these two. 

Lucy Pevensie, the brightest light he’d met in lifetimes, and Edmund Pevensie, undeniably her opposite, yet still unendingly captivating. 

Knowing them would liven up his days in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries. So he considered forgetting that he would outlive them ten times over. He wanted to know them. He wanted them to be more than just a blip on the long line of his life. 

He could do that. He could give them the courtesy of friendship, if nothing else. 

Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel for susan a lot, and i went back and forth a lot about whether or not involve malcolm and her other friends (and co-workers) more in this fic, ultimately, i determined that her character arc is much more personal and private, especially since Narnia is much more of an 'out there' sort of concept. malcolm does play a larger part later, but it's not that big, so i don't want to get anyone's hopes up there. i kept a lot of the character interactions in this fic pretty close knit for all six of them.
> 
> on a happier note, the lucy, edmund, merlin trio is one i have a gigantic soft spot for. things get really fun for them in a couple chapters and i'm really excited to share it with you all :)
> 
> anywho, tell me what you think in the comments or come chat on tumblr: [@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)  
> new chapter next monday!


	7. POLAND/LONDON. EARLY MAY 1945

War lingered across Europe like the tail end of a wildfire, with the scattered embers of battle still lighting up various regions of the continent, to say nothing of the large swaths of landscape left charred. The flames were particularly stubborn along the Eastern Front, where Arthur and Peter were still stationed, catching and relighting pockets of fields and forests without rhyme or reason. 

Hours before they would finally hear of Germany’s surrender, Arthur and Peter were lying flat against the ground, beyond the safety of their campgrounds, half tucked into the shrubbery just inside the edge of a wood. The wires were a mess and they, having drawn the two short straws, had been sent to fix them.

“Think he’s really dead?” Arthur asked, wincing as the wire in his hand shifted. It was rubbing his fingers raw. 

“Hitler? I hope so, might mean the end of this damn war.”

“You don’t think someone else will just take his place?”

Peter shook his head, “Doesn’t always work that way.”

Arthur filed the comment away with the long string of others. Peter had a habit of saying things that hinted at knowledge of things he shouldn’t have. Things that seemed… more akin to another time and place than the here and now. Phrases slipped that, surprisingly, reminded Arthur vividly of his past. Though he hadn’t really allowed himself the opportunity to pry into the life Peter must have lived in order to know what he did, moments like this sometimes made Arthur want to shake Peter and demand an explanation.

But with someone like Peter, Arthur was sure he’d only be inviting disaster in the form of questions he couldn’t quite answer himself. So he kept to the easy-going nature of their friendship with blind trust.

“Well, I hope you’re right. It’d be nice to go ho—"

Arthur bit off his own words as a stinging pain cut across the top of his shoulder to blossom deep in his right leg. He planted his face flat into the dirt against the sudden burn. 

He hated guns, considered them to be a coward’s weapon—an unfortunate opinion to have in this age, surrounded by nothing but rifles and bullets—but worse than what guns said of their opponents, Arthur hated getting shot. 

Peter, already on his feet, hauled him up and shoved him none too kindly against a tree, tucking in to his right side and peering around the bark without thought. The wire lay forgotten on the ground and gunfire echoed around them, but Arthur could only clench his teeth and focus on his breathing, leaning unfavorably against the tree to his back.

“What’s it look like?” Arthur ground out as Peter settled back next to him, checking for the spare magazine at his hip.

“Can’t see worth a damn. How’s your leg?”

“I’ve been worse.” Considering he could still feel his leg and the steady burn of pain, Arthur figured it was true enough. He felt the blood trickling down the back and side of his thigh and assumed the bullet wasn’t stuck in him still. He felt a bit lucky, though he knew his optimism wouldn’t last.

They were stranded beyond the edge of their campsite—distant but no more than three klicks from where they were now—and caught well past the guaranteed safety of their snipers’ sights. It felt a lot farther than he knew it was.

Peter peered back around the measley shelter of tree trunk again, then pulled back sharply, shifting the butt of his gun up to his shoulder. It was only by habit of watching him over the past year that Arthur noticed the subtle turn of his head as he leaned forward to fire twice.

Then, just like that, he turned back to shove Arthur. “Time to go!”

Technically, Arthur was the one with seniority—nothing so official as a rank or title, just an extra year’s worth of trudging through this wretched war. But he wondered if that experience was worth anything against Peter. 

Normally he might have thought it did, particularly given his other life. But considering the state of his leg and their distance from camp, Arthur didn’t think it mattered that he was a king. He bled the same as everyone else. Had the same ability to die, too.

Luckily, Peter was already a step ahead, mentally anyways. Physically, he’d turned his back to Arthur and covered their backs as Arthur hobbled along as best as he could. For someone who claimed he couldn’t see worth a damn, Peter fired off three shots in quick succession, each one to some carefully pinpointed location, no doubt. Arthur didn’t have any other option but to believe they hit their targets, finding a bit of comfort in the the steady, low ringing of the blowback. It helped him drown out the roar of pain burning just above his knee. 

Then the gun jammed.

Arthur turned, having half a mind to pass off his own firearm—it wasn’t as though he would be able to shoot properly, not with the blood trickling down the back of his leg and every sound suddenly echoing louder than he could think. But Peter was already there, shoving him farther along, insistent. 

“There’s no time, just go!”

A part of him wanted to ask Peter what he’d seen. The other part knew that if he did as he was told now, there would be plenty of time later for all the questions he could muster up the courage to ask. So he stumbled along the gnarled forest floor, Peter close behind. They were desperate for the trench that lay just beyond the trees. A hundred meters beyond that was another, safer trench in range of their snipers. 

Unfortunately, before they even reached the treeline, Peter cursed. 

Arthur looked back out of stubborn curiosity and was surprised to see someone coming straight for them, not with a gun but a blade. He blinked, not sure he could believe what he was seeing, but his vision only continued to blur. First in patches, then in wide swaths. 

If he weren’t so damn woozy already, Arthur might have fired off a shot himself to save them both the trouble of dying. But he could hardly breathe steadily; he couldn’t risk pulling the trigger with Peter so close. 

For half a second, he thought of Susan and the letter he’d have to write. If he even made it back to camp. Then he thought of the letters he wouldn’t be able to receive, and Arthur tripped. It was reflex that had his arms swinging back to try and catch himself, but the force of his fall—with hands bent at the wrist to catch too much of his own weight all at once—sent a shock of pain through his arms that made him curse, his vision flashing suddenly white against the dark overcast sky above.

When Peter came back into focus, Arthur could see that he’d shifted his grip on his rifle, bringing the butt up high to block not a sword as Arthur had thought, but a metal pole, shining and clattering against the gun. Peter swung the stock of it up and across the man’s face in a swift arc, and Arthur heard the ringing of the pole as it fell against hard roots, followed by the thud of a man dropping like a felled tree. 

He thought, maybe, Peter would step back now. Arthur hoped for it at least, just so he could get a proper look. 

Instead, he dropped to his knee over the man and slipped the knife from his belt to pull it clean across his throat, bloodying the entire mess of him. 

Arthur blinked, groaning as he pulled himself together and hauled himself up. 

It was over and everything grew deathly quiet, save for Peter carefully wiping the short blade against his sleeve. He wasn’t even breathing hard for how quickly he’d moved or for the force he’d exerted. 

When Peter straightened, Arthur swore he was seeing things again. He had to be imagining the crown on Peter’s head, clearly visible even in the dark. And instead of a rifle, a sword hung from his grip at his side. 

“Pevensie,” Arthur breathed, blinking between the shifting images of his friend. First a soldier dressed in the familiar, if dull, layers of their fatigues. Then something else altogether, encased in metal and velvet, with a figure of gold etched into a bold and bright red tunic.

It felt wrong. At first because Arthur knew Peter was not one of his knights. But then because the shape of the crest on Peter’s chest, going in and out of focus, looked off. 

“Damn it, Arthur,” Peter grunted, catching him when his leg gave out once more. He adjusted quickly so as not to fall under Arthur’s weight, and then pressed forward. 

Arthur hissed with each step but straightened on his good leg to ease the burden.

“I’ve got you. Stay with me, alright?” 

“Course,” he exhaled, eyes screwed shut. He reasoned if he didn’t look, he wouldn’t further confused himself with what he saw. And, he wouldn’t have to see how far they had yet to go. So, they muddled along awhile like that, Arthur blocking out all he could in favor of not sending them both to the ground. But before long, his strength depleted entirely and his chin dropped to his chest.

“Arthur?”

He pried open his eyes, ignored the quick and heavy throb of his leg and turned toward Peter. He meant to find his face, to reassure his friend that he was fine. But another flash of gold caught his eye and Arthur’s gaze remained riveted to the emblem on Peter’s chest, the fabric shifting between a bright, vivid red and dull dark brown as Peter adjusted his hold on him again. 

“We’re nearly there.” His voice was solid and warm and clear in Arthur’s ear. A good sign, since it meant they were still moving.

Arthur nodded slowly, still trying to make out the shape when it appeared. Peter’s grip around his side grounded him in reality, but his mind was already slipping into that other place. 

“Should have brought Gaius,” he muttered under his breath. “Or Merlin, maybe.”

“What?” Peter shifted, half turned toward him now.

“Merlin,” he repeated, blinking forcefully to clear his vision when finally,  _ finally _ , Arthur caught a clean look at the shape emblazoned on his companion’s chest.

It was not a dragon, as he would have expected, but a lion. 

The night they announced victory throughout Europe, Susan wore a new dress and hid her face with her favorite cosmetics—bright cheekbones and red, red lips, lines clean and sharp. She was a vision, they all said so. They said it of all the ladies in the hall tonight. They said it of the hall itself, brimming with laughter and light. It was a time for sparkling ciders and uninhibited celebrations, with everything cast in white, glittering and bright—but Susan felt more in the dark than ever.

Her mind had drifted, countries away, across the English Channel, through one or ten country lines to a hole in the dirt where she hoped a dismal spring would soon give way to a brighter summer. To a man in a tent somewhere dingy and dark. To Arthur and the letters she had written him. She was looking for the peace she’d written into the letters she’d sent away to be tucked into the jacket of a man she’d never met.

There were half a dozen letters from Arthur sitting in the drawer of her bedside table. Half a dozen letters, most with simple, mundane little bits of information—hardly anything worth thinking twice about. Then, there were those that held more. Those that had come later, when their conversation went past the line held by simple acquaintances. Beyond easy discussion of inconsequential day-to-day matters, and into more challenging concepts of worth and survival, of hope and worry. These were the concerns of anyone caught in wartime, sure. But they were larger—wider in scope than for just a single person—and they tugged on the bit of her soul she did not want to address.

Worst of all was the way they made everything else seem rather insignificant. Particularly tonight, when everything around her shined too bright and even the subtle clinking of glasses and the steady chatter of happy news was too loud.

“Susan? Are you alright?”

She produced a thin smile. “Don’t worry about me. I think I’ll just… step out for a bit of air.”

“Do you wa—"

“No,” she cut off abruptly, before softening. “Thank you.”

“Here, at least take my coat. It’s chilly out tonight.”

Malcolm shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders, but he did not join her as she stalked slowly up the marble stairs. 

It was stifling to have to take her time when she wanted to run. But her dress wasn’t meant for quick movements. The material shifted with each step, one way, then the next, threatening to catch on the stairs or her feet if she wasn’t careful. 

The dress was meant for indulgence, for celebration after the past few years of holding tight to hope and possibility. It was why she’d worn it. Why Malcolm had encouraged her to. She was meant to be looked at in this dress, but she did not feel seen.

Others would look at her and find a beautiful girl in a beautiful dress with the added comfort of a man’s jacket across her shoulders, and they would determine her to be a girl at the top of the world tonight. It was a night of celebrating, of rejoicing at the brilliant news of the end of a horrid war. 

No one would ever see her for who she was. A young woman who understood the intricacies of a battlefield and the turns of war better than most thought appropriate. A young woman who understood the end of the war was cause for celebration and that a party like this was only to be expected after so many years, and yet felt unsettled anyways. 

Because she was also a woman who knew the end of a war did not come at news of surrender or a fancy ball. Those were parts of an ending, certainly, but war like this was never quite finished until the homecoming of the soldiers who had fought. To commemorate peace before that felt dishonest, and to be standing in the thick of such blatant disrespect for those who had not yet returned made Susan a bit sick. 

The knowledge of what was still to come crowded her more than the people in the hall, drowning her with visions in her head of what should be.

Outside, the streets were louder, but the air was cool and refreshing, revitalizing her after the suffocation of everything indoors. The columns and the glamour, being surrounded by people so blissfully unaware of the truth of their circumstances… It all reminded her too much of Narnia, where she knew she no longer belonged.

Yet, it was where she still wished to be. Now more than ever.

At least in Narnia she had known what to do. How to be in circumstances like this, because she had never had to bend to expectation. 

Here, tonight, Susan didn’t know how to be excited and jubilant like Malcolm and the others inside expected her to be, not when she knew the heartache of waiting too well. For her family, for her friends, for her people—bloodied and weary, but safe. Returned home.

The memory of it weighed heavily on her as she worked to steady her heartbeat. 

The disparate circumstances between the end of a war here and there were what unsettled her so much, now. She couldn’t think of another reason why all she could see, even now that she was out in the open, was dirt and blood. A muddy battlefield, not so much destroyed by bombs and bullet casings, but littered with bodies and metal. 

As if by habit, she braced herself against the stone walls and tilted her head back. 

The sky was dark, dotted only with imagined specks of light. There one second and gone the next. She knew the stars she sought were not there, but she willed them into existence anyways. Willed herself onto the shallow balcony outside her rooms at Cair Paravel, looking up out into the endless glittering dark. Waiting for the others to come home, Susan would count the stars and be comforted by the knowledge that somewhere, those she held in her heart would be under the same sky. Here in London, the muggy night sky did not calm her in the same way. Instead, every breath seemed to catch on the heartache that came with being alone.

Susan had not frequented many of the battles in Narnia—there had not been many full scale wars to begin with, but even with the skirmishes across the kingdom and the occasional uproar along the borders, the need for her to go out with the others had been minimal. To the point that eventually, perhaps halfway through their reign, Susan simply opted to stay at Cair Paravel in their stead whenever it was plausible.

Even so, she was not unfamiliar with bloodshed, and there were certain scenes that were impossible not to remember, that she would never forget no matter how much she wanted to. Scenes that threatened to bleed between that world and this one. 

Sometimes, Susan thought it was worse that she hadn’t had the same kind of experience of war as her siblings had in Narnia. That even if she’d joined them and they had all marched to the same fields and the same fights, it would still be different. She fought best with her bow and arrow, weapons of range and distance, where her siblings each preferred blades, short or long, single or double. Their fight had always been more personal at such a close range where each man or woman or beast fended for themselves. But from the high ground, from a distance, she had seen the wars in their entirety. 

It was why she didn’t think her siblings understood the difference between the wars of each of their worlds, and why it was such a struggle to imagine anything beside bloody landscapes and mangled bodies, torn apart by bullets and explosions, weapons they had never faced in Narnia. It had made this war larger than anything else she and her siblings had faced in their other home, heightening Susan’s worries for the others.

Yet it wasn’t Peter she thought of now, surviving the destruction of some skirmish or another to make it home. It wasn’t Edmund, who, for all she knew, was staring more at papers and letters—cataloging insights and possibilities—before aligning the sights of a rifle. And it wasn’t Lucy, who she knew was safe somewhere. In England again, she’d written, not too long ago, though she hadn’t specified where. 

It wasn’t her family, and it wasn’t Malcolm she hoped was comforted by the precious few stars she saw above. He was still inside, perfectly safe from bombs and bullets, as he had been all this time. 

It was Arthur.

Arthur, who, save for a handful of letters, was nothing to her but a friend of her brother’s, and yet she trusted him to keep Peter safe. 

Arthur, who’d recently talked about the concept of fairness and the weight of a family legacy, but did not pry into her own family. Who was thoughtful and specific about the words he used and whose favorite season was spring.

It was unnerving to know that this was the man she thought of and wished a quick and safe return home. Worrisome still that she felt he would come home to her, that she would even want that of him despite never having met. The notion was so comfortable and simple, Susan didn’t know how to dispel it. In fact, it only brought more of the same.

Susan couldn’t remember a time she felt so comfortably known by a man, though plenty had tried their hand at it. Suitors had lined up to the doors of Cair Paravel’s throne room, waiting for an audience with The Gentle Queen, but only a handful had ever managed more than a few moments with her and hardly any of those had been alone. 

Rabadash had gotten closest to winning her favor, of course. He had been a welcome change from the suitors who fell first for her appearance only to balk later at her quick wit and steadfast practicality. But where he had seemed a perfect gentleman in Narnia’s courts, appearing to be as invested in her happiness as his own, the desert prince had exhibited an instant change when they arrived in Calormen, becoming atrociously selfish as soon as he was back on home soil.

Neither Malcolm nor Arthur was like Rabadash from what she could see. But they were both quite far from the comfort of their own homes, where they could truly be themselves. Malcolm with an ocean to cross, and Arthur with the tail end of a war to survive.

As she stared up at the dark and dismal display, a terrifying thought unfurled itself inside Susan’s mind: she did not have the luxury of being home either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this scene with susan is one of my favorites in this fic. and if you're reading along in my re-write of PC "Of Living Legends" you'll see an echo of susan+stars in one of the later chapters ;) i was mostly inspired by the edmund+caspian scene in VoDT but i think it was more fitting that susan would not only notice the difference between the narnia and our world, but also that in moments like this, she would still turn to the london sky and reflect a bit. whereas i feel edmund might not allow himself the opportunity to dwell too much on that sort of thing while alone.
> 
> also, for those curious, i originally had plans to flesh malcolm out a bit more, but the truth is i didn't really think it was necessary. bc it's not so much what he does for susan, but rather what susan thinks he does or doesn't do for her. 
> 
> anywho, tell me what you think in the comments or come chat on tumblr: [@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)  
> just a heads up that i'm going to be on holiday next week. i'll have wifi so the next chapter should still be posted monday, but it might be a bit later than usual


	8. OXFORD. EARLY MAY 1945

News of The Axis Powers’ surrender spread across the cities of Europe in a chain of bursts, with immediate celebrations taking over entire cities and lasting for days. 

In their own small but cozy flat, Merlin and Lucy took to VE Day celebrations that stretched across the entire week. They had begun early, when Edmund had stopped by with two bottles of champagne and a wide grin the day news of Hitler’s suicide reached them. It signalled the end of the war, he’d explained—popping first one bottle and then the other—with a certainty neither Lucy nor Merlin could find the energy to argue against. 

Of course, they learned that Edmund was right within the next week. And by then, the three had settled into the pattern he had started with no apparent need to stop. Lucy and Merlin worked their usual shifts at the hospital, only to arrive back at their flat to find Edmund already waiting. 

“Don’t you have any studying to do?” Lucy asked, falling back onto the sofa late in the evening the day after the news officially broke. The whole of the country was still celebrating, and Lucy was happy to do her part, already several glasses deep into the night. They all were, but as the smallest of them in stature, she was clearly the most affected. 

“No,” Edmund answered, peering at the alcohol remaining in the third bottle before pouring what was left into another glass for himself. “It’s all quite dull, if I’m to be honest.”

As much as his coursework was necessarily, Edmund found himself torn between wanting to be done with it already and continuing to coast languidly along. If it weren’t for his monthly calls to Hentley—often exceedingly brief and straightforward—he might have forgotten the point of attending his classes at all.

“Nothing in the library, even?” Lucy prodded, lifting her head briefly from the cushioned sofa-back, and then letting it fall back again. 

He shrugged, eyeing the strip of sky through the window behind her. It was pitch dark, a canvas of black without the slightest speck of discernible light. Edmund hated it, but he supposed nothing would ever compare to the stars in Narnia. 

“I’d give anything to see the libraries at Cair Paravel, again,” he mumbled absently.

“I thought you read through all of that.” 

“Cair Paravel?” Merlin asked, and Edmund turned sharply at him, suddenly aware of his own slip up. But he found Merlin’s cheeks flushed—a light pink on his too-pale skin—and his lips curved into a wide, curious smile, and suddenly, Edmund found it difficult to hold onto his worry.

Merlin had several smiles. A bright one that often made an appearance when Lucy began to ramble in that too animated, overly exuberant way of hers. A mischievous grin that Lucy always managed to catch before Edmund did—though that made sense, since it was often directed at her and preceded a vicious tickle fight. A softer one that Edmund never saw without the strange nostalgia that washed over Merlin’s face, like he was remembering some other time he never explained. And a brittle one that followed at the last one’s heels, broken and a bit wistful, like Merlin wished he could be somewhere else and knew he could not.

But this one put the rest to shame. Brighter in his eyes than it was wide in his lips, a soft delight would fill his face full. It wasn’t unlike one of Lucy’s smiles. Though his did not blind near as much as hers did, it was heartwarming and uplifting. It was the smile Merlin wore when he learned something new about them. About him. 

Edmund fleetingly considered the absurd possibility that this smile might be just for him. 

Then he remembered Merlin’s question and forced himself to focus. He searched for the answer in his fuzzy memory, only to remember that no, they hadn’t told him. Of course they hadn’t. They didn’t just tell people about Cair Paravel or Narnia. 

“The castle in Narnia,” Lucy answered idly. “Remember? I told you about it the other day.”

“She told you?” Edmund blurted out. Then he turned. “You told him?”

“Oh, do calm down, dear brother,” she said loftily with a wave of her hand. “It isn’t as if you haven’t been dying to tell him yourself.”

Edmund looked between the two slowly, back and forth and back and forth before settling his gaze on Merlin. Some part of him expected to see the usual, beautifully twisted confusion woven into his expression, begging for an explanation. 

Instead, he found that same curious and electric smile, as if Merlin took pleasure in the way Lucy made him squirm. 

“He won’t tell anyone. I made him swear not to,” she drawled. “On Aslan’s mane.”

Edmund pressed his eyes closed, as if he could block out the budding annoyance from the inside out. “He doesn’t even know what that means!”

“No, but I can guess,” Merlin said, reminding him quite solidly that he was, in fact, still in the room with them. 

Edmund set his glass down, more afraid that he’d snap the stem than he would spill the alcohol inside, though the two weren’t entirely exclusive. Even with it placed safely on the table, he slid it farther from the edge, slowly, deliberately as he thought.

“Oh, don’t look so concerned. With all the stories he told us, I felt it was only fair I shared some too,” she explained, but Edmund knew it was just an excuse. 

If Lucy felt Merlin was worth sharing Narnia with, then she would have done so without the allure of other stories in exchange. It was the fact that she’d decided Merlin was someone she could trust that Edmund found grating. Not because he didn’t agree, but because she was right—he _had_ want to tell him.

Edmund had wanted to tell him about Narnia from the moment he’d finished his story about the Fisher King that first night. Something about the way he’d told it had stuck with Edmund and made him want to divulge everything. He hadn’t, of course. He couldn’t. 

Lucy had always been better at giving in to her desires, of doing what she wanted and creating little moments of comfort for herself where she saw fit. As thought there was never any question as to whether she deserved it all.

Sitting forward suddenly, Lucy snatched the glass right from Edmund’s lingering fingers. “Anyway,” she shrugged, like it was nothing. “He promised, and you know what I do to people who break their promises.”

Edmund calmed a bit, knowing full well that his sister’s threats held true fire. Her anger was short-lived, perhaps—the upside to her softer, forgiving nature—but flames still burned, no matter how slow or quick they were to fade. He’d doubted her once, and that had been enough.

She stood then, satisfied. “Well, I’m off to bed now, and I am not taking these bottles out in the morning. Mrs. Kimber already thinks poorly of me. I’d rather she not think I drink too much, on top of that.”

Lucy cut across the flat to her room, a bit wobbly, bumping first into Merlin’s chair—patting him on the head as only she could—and then against the door frame to her room, cursing softly. But when she closed her door, she did so deftly, turning the knob and fitting the door to the frame so softly there wasn’t so much as a click. 

Watching her, Edmund almost gave in to the laughter bubbling in his chest. Lucy put on such a good show when she wanted to. Instead, he shook his head and ducked his head to hide the smile he couldn’t help. He would have to thank her in the morning.

His eyes drifted to Merlin as the man chuckled lightly, his head still turned to Lucy’s door, and, with a sudden desire to give himself a bit of space, Edmund stood and gathered up the empty bottles and glasses to take to the kitchen. Edmund drew out his return in order to control his thoughts. They ran a bit wild when he was alone with Merlin, sometimes to the future, but more often to the past. To all the things he hadn’t been able to forget from their first encounter.

Fingertips trailing across his skin, running along the jagged scars that marked both his skin and his memory. Hands caught in his hair and dragged down his spine. Lips against his shoulder, his jaw, his neck, every gentle nibble against his thudding pulse an intimate affair. 

It was such a distinct experience to be undone. To be broken and made whole all at once. And damn it all if Edmund didn’t want to feel that way again.

At some point in his life, he might have spent time wondering how it was possible for Merlin to have gotten under his skin so quickly. But Edmund had long ago stopped questioning the incredulity of his life. Between talking animals, witches, and lives lived and unlived, he’d accepted that there were some things—not many, but still some— he might never know the secrets behind. There were likely even a select few of those that he was better off in the dark about altogether. Merlin, he figured, likely fell into the latter category, no matter Edmund’s endless curiosity.

By the time he returned and settled back into his seat, the smile on Merlin’s face was gone, but he didn’t appear perturbed or anxious. Edmund could work with that. 

“How much did she tell you?”

Merlin shook his head, a cautiously furtive look on his face. “I can’t tell you.”

“No?”

“She made me swear I wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

He was about to explain that it was clearly all right to talk to him, as he’d been in Narnia and was very clearly part of the stories themselves. But Merlin’s lips twitched into that impish smirk of his, the one he usually only ever used with Lucy, and Edmund felt his heart skip as he waited for Merlin explain further. 

“Not even you.”

He did laugh, then. A bright chuckle at the game set before him, where the temptation to win was as enticing as it was to lose. 

“Good ol’ Lucy. Too efficient for her own good.”

He glanced at her door and imagined, fleetingly, Lucy grinning to herself while curled up in the blankets on her bed. She knew him well. Too well, perhaps.

“Considering I was there,” he started, dragging his gaze back to the man in front of him, “I can’t imagine it would hurt to tell me what you know. 

Edmund wondered how far he could push Merlin. Their dynamic had clearly changed from what it had been, that night in France. And rightfully so, given Lucy’s presence in nearly all the time since they’d become properly acquainted. But even without her mediation, the two of them were friends now, or perhaps were growing into being friends. 

It was hard not to see the amenable side to Merlin. He was an optimist—which Edmund supposed was why he and Lucy got on so well—but practical, too. A necessary quality for a doctor. His foolish and playful nature came out most often at Lucy’s prompting, but Edmund caught it from time to time himself, typically when Merlin lost himself in whatever story he was telling them. 

It was odd, reconciling the two sides of him together. Merlin was a strange anomaly of a person—too knowledgeable of the world for someone who claimed so little in familial resources, too skilled in medicine for someone his age no matter what Edmund thought of the complexity of age and wisdom, and too odd with the various tales he told about a king whom Edmund had been certain he’d already learned all there was to know. 

But beyond all that, beyond all the things he knew and said, was the way he behaved. Merlin presented a challenge with the dazed and distanced look that took over his face when he thought no one was paying attention. He crept up on Edmund, first a puzzle, now a full blown fascination. 

Just the fact that Merlin had heard the truth about Narnia and had yet to claim Lucy or Edmund crazy for it was a warning sign. And if he weren’t in such desperate need of someone to share that side of him with—besides his siblings of course—Edmund might have able to properly navigate his own curiosities. 

But he couldn’t. No matter how Edmund looked at it, the situation always turned out the same. Merlin, for all his stories and his quirks, had gotten into his very veins and no amount of strangeness would turn him out.

“I’d rather not risk it with Lucy, but you bring up a good point,” Merlin conceded. “You were there, so you can tell me your own version of everything. I’d have a fuller picture, at the very least.”

Edmund frowned. “That gives you more than you already have and leaves me with nothing. That’s hardly fair.”

“You’d know that I know what you know?”

Edmund chucked the pillow beside him at Merlin for something to do with his hands, but the other man ducked, as if used to projectiles thrown in his direction, and the pillow landed on the floor.

“Fine. Fine,” Merlin laughed. “How about you pick a story, any one, and I’ll tell you if she’s told me her version or not. If she has and you want to hear what I know, you have to tell me your side of it afterward.”

It was closer to something acceptable, but the longer they sat apart, the more aware Edmund became of the soft glowing ember inside him, demanding attention. He wanted to grant it, but he needed a proper sign first. Something to show that Merlin wanted him as much as Edmund wanted him.

“And if I ask about a story she hasn’t shared?”

“Then… you can tell me what happened, in exchange for a secret…”

He said more, Edmund was certain of it. He could see Merlin’s lips moving, but at the prospect of uncovering some of the mystery behind the young man in front of him, the ember inside his chest caught and the burst of flame momentarily blocked everything else out.

“…something about you, you get to know something about me.”

In another scenario, with another man, it might have been perfect. But Edmund was rapidly losing interest in sharing stories of his past when they could be making better use of their present.

Standing, he shook his head and crossed over to the pillow that had landed on the floor. 

“No?”

“No.” He returned to sit on the edge of the table in front of Merlin and tossed the pillow over his shoulder, back to the sofa. “I’m tired of stories.”

Merlin’s offer to trade secrets appeared enticing enough, at least for Edmund to consider it, but after only a moment, he stood, shaking his head, and Merlin was left to track him with his eyes—across the room to pick up the pillow he’d thrown and then back.

“No?”

“No. I’m tired of stories.” Edmund said, not bothering to go back to the sofa. Rather, he sat directly in front of him and smirked. “But secrets seem interesting enough.”

“You want to… trade secrets?” Merlin asked, suddenly focused on the distance between them, or the lack thereof. It felt dangerous as the champagne started to settle, pushing his senses to the edge of his control. Or maybe it was Edmund himself, blurring his focus on what he knew he should or shouldn’t do.

“You suggested it. Don’t tell me you weren’t serious?”

Merlin was hesitant. His offer for secrets had been genuine, but he’d also planned to rely on the wealth of what Lucy had already shared with him so as not have to reveal any. His secrets were hundreds of years old, and they were all so entwined, Merlin feared he couldn’t just give one up without forfeiting half a dozen others, not with Edmund who managed to see so much more than anyone ever meant for him to. 

“Just one each, then,” Edmund amended. “How about it, Merlin?”

It was embarrassing, the way he forgot himself the moment Edmund’s voice dropped to that timbre, low and rough. Merlin wasn’t typically quite so timid. Perhaps once, generations ago, but he’d grown since then, become more familiar with himself and the kind of strength he had and the kind he didn’t. But there was something about the way Edmund said his name that sent Merlin back, not just to their night together in France, but even further, to a time long forgotten. 

Something about the way those dark eyes watched him—as if there was nothing else in the world at all worth even glancing at—had Merlin remembering a kind of love he wasn’t sure he could have again.

It made Merlin remember, too, what Lucy had told him just that morning about Edmund and the kind of loyalty he inspired: limitless and personal, it was more than support for a crown or a kingdom. It was an intimate kind of devotion. A dangerous one, Lucy had said, as if in warning. 

Perhaps he should have listened, but Merlin felt now, that it was too late. He was already caught, pulled in further than he could have anticipated. Whatever Edmund asked of him, Merlin would endeavor to do; wherever he would go, Merlin would do his best to follow. Tonight, tomorrow, years from now when he was old and gray again and Edmund was gone. Whatever the nature of their relationship, Merlin would let it be. And when it ended, he would be as grateful for it as he would be destroyed by it. 

He’d experienced this kind of pull once before, but so much of that experience had been twisted up in destiny and fate and duty that Merlin had found it difficult to separate the threads of what was his and what had been predetermined by a power outside his control. And in the years that followed, lonesome and desperate, he had lost track of what had been his choice and what hadn’t. 

It was different with Edmund; Merlin knew what he felt for him was of his own making. Molded by his own desires and hopes. And Edmund… whatever he wanted of Merlin, it didn’t matter. There wasn’t another like Edmund in this world or any other. Merlin was sure of that. And he had always had a liking for the undefinable.

“If you like…” Edmund, damn him, had leaned closer. “I can go first.”

Merlin shook his head, slowly, his gaze drifting as Edmund moved back. Before he could retreat entirely, Merlin caught him by the shoulder, slipped his hand around his neck, and closed the distance between them. 

Kissing him was different this time, compared to the cold winter night in France. Less harried, but just as urgent and hopeless. It made his heart pound in his chest just the same, and when they broke, Merlin was relieved to find they were both panting.

“That wasn’t a secret,” Edmund huffed darkly, forehead pressed against his own, eyes still closed. 

It wasn’t a question, but Merlin answered anyway. “No, but I’ve been waiting to do that since you knocked on our door, weeks ago.”

“When you shut the door in my face?”

“Yes… Though I suppose I never did apologize for that, did I?” 

“No, you didn’t,” Edmund confirmed in a whisper. “A horrible injustice.”

“Too true,” he breathed back, catching the barest flicker of light in Edmund’s eyes when they opened, before they settled into their usual, endless dark. 

He could get lost in them, the way others stared into the night sky wondering at all the space and time trapped between the stars. 

Merlin swallowed, fingers slipping just beyond the collar of Edmund’s shirt. “And what sentence does the Just King pass for such a wrongdoing?”

A shiver passed through Edmund’s shoulders, and there were no more words. Merlin could only focus on the taste of their lips together as Edmund all but climbed into the chair with him, knocking him against the winged back with decided force. It teetered back for a moment, and then toppled, leaving Edmund on top of him. 

Then, in the span of time it took for him to appreciate the comfortable weight of Edmund’s body on top of his own, he was gone.

“Come and find out,” said the breath against his ear as Edmund shuffled away, off the chair and down the hall to the only other room in the flat—the one that belonged to Merlin.

Following after him, Merlin grinned to himself. A thousand years, and he was still chasing a king. 

They laid across his bed, after, partially turned up in the covers, only touching where their legs crossed. The sounds of their breathing filled the room, soft and slow in Merlin’s ear against the strong beat of his heart.

“You remind me of it sometimes,” Edmund murmured softly after a moment, sprawled out on his stomach. He turned his head lazily to face him.

“Of what?” Merlin deliberated on brushing a stray hair from Edmund’s face. He hadn’t had the courage for something like that in France. It had been a different affair altogether, then. But his thick black hair had grown since that night, into a rich inky mess that fell in tufts against his pale face, and Merlin wanted to reach into it again. Almost as much as he wanted to kiss the freckles that spotted the expanse of his back. They tempted him, laid out like the constellations, but he knew if he started again, there would be no end.

“Narnia.”

He didn’t answer, not sure what he was supposed to say, but Edmund had become an expert at hearing his silent questions, at knowing what Merlin wanted and providing it in a way that made him scared of what else he could have if only he were brave enough to ask. 

“I think of you when I’m not here.” Edmund confessed, speaking in the careful but dreary half-tone of someone caught between being awake and asleep, breathy and lost. 

Merlin thought, for a second, that Edmund couldn’t possibly know what he was admitting. 

“And when I am… when I have you, I feel as though I couldn’t possibly get enough.” 

No, he decided. Nothing about Edmund was ever left to chance. Everything was calculated. Purposeful. Merlin wouldn’t be hearing this unless he was meant to. This wasn’t just the kind of thought meant for the realm in between waking and sleeping. It was the kind meant to be guarded, something to hold onto and protect. 

This was his secret, unprompted and offered first. A gift. A sign of trust Merlin didn’t deserve. 

“When I’m with you…” he murmured, lips just barely moving. 

Merlin held his breath for the rest, but Edmund’s confession ended there, incomplete and taken under, into the steady deep breaths of unconsciousness.

The silence afterward settled too quickly, and the peace that had rested so briefly on Merlin shoulders was replaced with an overwhelming and familiar dread. 

It had never come this early, the prickling, heart-racing feeling of an impending end, and he was surprised to find he was terrified of it. So much so that as he looked at Edmund in the wispy light of the streetlamp outside, filtering into the room through the window, Merlin—who held the tragedy of time in his bones—wished desperately and pointlessly that he could change destiny or fate or whatever power of the world it was that kept him alive. 

He didn’t want to know the other side of a world without Edmund. 

In his first years alone, after the last remnants of Camelot and Albion had passed from the world, Merlin thought he’d had a handle on the terms of his life. The unending nature of it, the loss he’d grown accustomed to over the years, the solitude he faced for however long it would be before Arthur returned.

Then, as that time grew longer, Merlin’s desires changed. They shifted into a dream of a dream, where he imagined for himself the luxury of love and happiness without the inevitability of the loneliness that would follow when he outlasted everyone and everything around him.

But his was an infinite life. He had long ago lost track of the years—though he was sure it was over a millennia now. The loss had piled up quickly between the friends and family and homes and even the occasional stranger he’d connected with. Eventually, even the history of his life had become myth and legend, and the hope he’d held onto turned into an impossible thing.

Then, somehow, from one impossible thing, came another. Because he had had the great fortune of crossing paths with Lucy. A small town girl with a heart of gold who had spun stories of kings and queens and battles and adventures like they were the breath of her life. A girl who, in telling him of four grand kings and queens—glorious in their reign but forever marked by their loss in a fight against magic and time—allowed him to find something he thought he’d never encounter in someone else. 

It was in her voice, the first time they’d met, that hint of pain that came from the barely-there recollections of a life she could only truly explain through memory and dream. Merlin had hoped, long before she admitted it, that her stories were true. But just knowing her was enough. It was everything he wanted, because Lucy provided the opportunity for true understanding. 

And with her had come Edmund, a once-stranger in a pub who had turned into something beyond his dreams.

But gods, the things he did to him were unfair.

The way Merlin felt about him was undeniably treacherous. A criminal offense, but one he’d gladly take the punishment for, a thousand times over, if needed. Even as he decided it, he knew it was inevitable. Merlin was already guilty of thinking about Edmund too, when he wasn’t around. It was why, in the end, he’d asked Lucy after him while they worked, and why she’d told him the truth about Narnia. Though she shared nothing more than the bare minimum where Edmund was concerned, even when he had asked for details. 

It wasn’t her story to tell, she said, time and time again. Adamant and determined.

Merlin wished he had her resolve. 

Instead, he found himself reaching out to run his fingers carefully across the faded white stripe that cut jagged across Edmund’s shoulder. 

In France, he had claimed it was a fencing accident. 

Tonight, Edmund corrected himself, admitting not just to catching an arrow in the shoulder but to something more, something lost in bitterness. It had shone through his faltering composure—a clear sign that Edmund had once collected scars like these. Like souvenirs across a body that wasn’t his anymore, lost in that other world, that other life.

The cut across his shoulder was one of only a few visible scars on Edmund’s body, but it was the most severe, and Merlin hated that it represented what he wished Edmund didn’t know. Because the bitterness Edmund held for losing his scars only came with the knowledge that there was something more to them than what could be seen. That there could be marks sunken beneath the surface of the skin, held there by the sheer weight of personal penance. 

Merlin had a scar of his own that was similarly heavy with the history it held, and like a fool, he’d agreed to share that history with Edmund someday. Simply because he’d asked.

The whole of what Merlin was doing with Edmund was foolish. 

He didn’t know when, exactly—Merlin tried not to think about the way time toyed with him—but there would be an end. With his life, it always came, and though he’d been prepared to accept it earlier, to accept what he was given and endure the loss, Merlin dreaded it now. Feared it, for what it would do. 

His own devastation was inevitable, but Merlin had given into that truth years ago. Had survived it before and would survive it again. There was no true concern there. 

Merlin's true fear lay in what the end would bring to Edmund.

Asleep now, he looked at peace. So blissfully unmarked by struggle and strife it made Merlin wish he could turn back time and save him from the end that was already beginning. 

But he couldn't. In all his years, time had only ever moved forward. This much, he knew with absolute certainty.

The end would come, and he could guess the outcome. His guilt would compound as was its nature over the centuries, but Edmund—who tasted like a fighter with no one left to fight but himself, already brittle from the pain folded into his bones and scars etched into the muscle beneath his skin—might just break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, there's definitely (near finished) WIPs of the smut associated with this fic sitting in my folders--one for chapter 3 and another for this chapter. i'll probably post them in a separate work (within the same series here on ao3 so it's all tied together), i'm just not sure when yet--now or after this fic's all posted. thoughts? preferences? let me know in the comments or hop on over to tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)) to let me know :) and as always, next chapter's up in a week!


	9. LONDON. LATE MAY 1945

“Tell me again why we couldn’t just go for a few pints down the road?”

Peter rolled his eyes. It was the third time Arthur had asked in the last five minutes, and he had to resist the urge to reach across the seat of the car to tug on one end of Arthur’s tie to unravel the entire thing, just to spite him. 

It had been a long six weeks since their mishap in the woods of Poland—with Arthur stuck in a cot for two and a half of them as his leg healed—but Peter still could not forget the things Arthur had said, delirious from blood loss, on their slow return to camp. 

Peter had all but dragged him back, with thoughts of Narnia rattling around his head for hours afterward at Arthur’s unintentional prompting. Mention of knights and castles and plated armor always did it. Yet, when Arthur woke up, he seemed none the wiser. 

“Pevensie.” 

Peter snapped to and smiled thinly. “My sister invited me, and I couldn’t say no.”

“Alright, but why am I coming?” Arthur asked. 

Because of the letters, Peter thought, eyeing his friend. He caught Arthur rubbing the outside of his leg, just below the knee. 

The bullet had gone straight through, far enough from the joint and close enough to the edge that it healed cleanly. The worst of the damage had been the amount of blood Arthur lost, but the pain seemed to hang around, creating a ghost of a wound. 

“Because,” he sighed, just as they pulled up to the curb. “I don’t know how long I’ll last with the civvies.” Peter leaned into his excuse. It wasn’t a lie, exactly—he really wasn’t sure about being back among the people after over a year away—but he hadn’t meant for it to be. The best excuses were part truth after all. Edmund had taught him that. 

“Fine, but you owe me a double after,” Arthur muttered and climbed out of the car after him.

“Pretty sure you still owe me, but if it’ll get you to quit complaining, sure.”

They stood side by side, staring up at the steps for a second, taking in the sheer number of people between them and the doors up ahead. 

“Are you sure about this?” 

Peter straightened his jacket. He wasn’t sure at all, but he’d told Susan he’d be there, and after being away for so long, Peter was more concerned with seeing his sister than he was having to deal with the crowds. 

It wasn’t the people, really, though it was easier to say it was. Arthur understood that, even if Peter got the sense the other man wasn’t nearly as bothered by it as he was—and for good reason. There were reasons behind his apprehension that Peter could not explain, no matter how good a friend he considered Arthur to be.

Truth was, Peter didn’t yearn for Narnia as much as he once had, and the parts of it that he missed now were different. He had gotten a bit of closure when they’d gone back to help Caspian with the Telmarines. Not so much in terms of what had happened in Narnia and those they left behind, but with his own mindset. He managed, the second time, to come back less agitated by the loss of an entire life and family. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t see the similarities in the way the pavillion, here, was held up by white stone columns complete with a wide grand staircase leading up the entrance. Or the static in the air, building in his ears as he considered the level of elegance and ceremony an event like this held.

It wasn’t Cair Paravel, and it wasn’t like one of their grand feasts or festivals, but it was close enough. Particularly considering he’d just been away at war for months on end. The resemblance was a bit maddening. 

But that was all the more reason to see Susan, and if she was inside, he didn’t want to waste any more time.

“Come on.” Arthur gripped his shoulder, and the pair took to the steps. 

The low level pressure in Peter’s chest grew worse once the got inside, with the steady chatter and regular ring of glasses clinking together or heels against the marble floor. Luckily, Susan met them before they’d gotten too far past the fountain beyond the foyer. 

“Peter!” 

“Su.” He hugged her, holding on a touch longer than he should. The reassurance he felt with her was as it always was, strong and steady. 

“I’m so glad you’re home!”

“It’s good to be home,” he answered softly, smiling before he glanced to Arthur. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought a straggler.”

She chuckled, but it stopped short when she actually took Arthur in.

“Arthur, this is my sister, Susan. Su, Arthur.”

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Peter fought to keep a neutral expression, but where he’d anticipated the awestruck look on Arthur’s face, seeing the practiced smile on Susan’s face soften was more of a surprise.

Unfortunately, the moment was short lived. 

“Susan! There you are!” 

The intruding voice was loud, cutting into the quiet scene without preamble. The young man who approached was about Peter’s height, dressed in the easily recognizable dress uniform of an American soldier. Someone used to being around those of higher ranking, judging by the stiffness in his shoulders, but not of any particular authority himself. 

He barged in between the three of them, causing Arthur to teeter awkwardly aside, and he snatched up Susan’s attention like it was something he hadn’t realized he’d dropped.

“Malcolm!” The surprise in her face shifted immediately, and she threw a cautious look to Arthur before turning wholeheartedly to Peter. “Peter, this is Malcolm. Malcolm, this is my brother.”

He held out his hand and found Malcolm’s eyes, catching a soft flicker of apprehension in them, not the kind attached to nerves but the one related to memory. Malcolm’s wariness was subtle, disappearing behind a smile. 

“It’s good to meet you, glad to know you’ve made it home.”

Peter nodded stiffly.

“And,” Susan continued. “This is Arthur.”

“Not another brother?” Malcolm asked frowning as he took the hand offered to him. 

“No,” Arthur confirmed. “Just a friend.”

The measured tone of his voice revealed enough for Peter to confirm his earlier hunch. His smile had gone too, replaced by a guarded expression. Curious but careful. 

Peter cast a quick glance at Susan to see what he could glean from her expression, but she’d pulled a mask over her features. Polite and unassuming, it was familiar to him only in that he had never cared for it.

“Well, it’s good to meet you as well. Do you ne—"

“Lieutenant Hayes.”

It was a short and stout man who interrupted them this time, but Malcolm turned and accepted the note from him with the barest of apologetic smiles to the rest of them. 

“I’m sorry. Seems I’m needed elsewhere.” Malcolm announced hastily, turning back to the three of them for a moment. “Please. Whatever you need, just let them know you’re with me. I’ll be back as soon as I’m free.”

He leaned toward Susan and pressed a feather light kiss to her cheek before disappearing. 

“Well,” Peter commented, a bit shocked. “He seems… nice.”

“Oh, don’t start, Peter.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in a hasty surrender. “He was hardly here long enough for me to really get a sense of him, anyway.”

“It wasn’t like he planned to be called away,” she insisted sternly. “Seemed like it was important, anyhow.”

“Right…” He frowned at the sharp undertone to her voice. “Well, I’m going to grab a drink. Would either of you like anything?” 

Susan shook her head. 

“Arthur?”

His friend managed a bit of mirth in his expression, and Peter felt—not for the first time—that Arthur might have made a proper diplomat.

“Go on,” he declined. “You’ve needed a drink since before we got out of the car. I’ll wait.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’d be rude if we all abandoned your sister, don’t you think?”

Peter instinctively thought to point out that Susan was more than capable of handling herself for a few minutes, but she cut in to thank Arthur first, so Peter yielded.

He meandered a bit in his walk toward the tables lining the room, watching the crowds as he wove through them. The hall had high, paneled ceilings, and the chandeliers cast sparkling white light around the room, highlighting the shine of every medal that dangled from the uniforms around the room and shimmering against each woman’s glittering dress. It was, all things considered, more than elaborate enough a setting, and yet Peter found a pit growing in his stomach as he cut across the room, avoiding eye contact with any and every individual he passed. 

After several minutes of his pointed dodging, he managed to find a spot for himself along the far wall, with a glass of champagne snagged from a passing tray. From this distance, it was easy for Peter to see the others, and watching them, he calmed a bit. Susan seemed the same as she always had been, holding Arthur’s attention as if she were the only one in the room. It was something she’d always managed well. Commanding a room was easy for all of them, but especially so for Susan. It settled his lingering concerns to see her in such a familiar manner, when she’d just appeared so… harsh.

Peter had never expected for the four of them remain as they had been—particularly not after leaving Narnia to Caspian—and Susan least of all after the last few years. But he couldn’t quite shake the shift he’d seen in her expression just now.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known her to be stern before. It was that he’d never known her to so quickly come to a man’s defense, even for himself or Edmund. That she’d done so for Malcolm, spoke more of her relationship with him than Peter wanted to accept. 

He couldn’t claim to know everything about how Susan was faring with regard to matters of the heart, of course. The two of them had stopped discussing that sort of thing even before they met Caspian—more for Peter’s benefit than hers—but he’d be lying if he didn’t say he was curious. And concerned. 

It was difficult enough for them to navigate the duplicity of their lives. There had been costs associated with their reign of a far away kingdom in a land unknown to the rest of the world. And losing the lives they’d lived there had come with a kind of pain no others would ever know.

The first time, Peter had thought he’d lost more than his siblings had. He still did, from time to time, particularly when it came to things like love. But the last thing he wanted now was for Susan, Edmund, or Lucy to feel as though they had to settle for less than they deserved, out of fear of some further loss. Not after everything they’d already sacrificed. 

Peter knew what it meant to truly love someone and to be loved by them in return, and he wanted nothing less than that for each of his siblings.

He couldn’t be sure of the situation between Susan and Malcolm. He hardly knew the man after all, but he did know Susan. No matter how she’d changed, he could still see the woman he’d ruled a kingdom with, just as easily as he could see the girl who helped him corral their younger siblings, before Narnia. Susan was still his sister, and he had seen her with enough suitors to know better than to think much of Malcolm.

It wasn’t that he was a bad man—as he’d told Susan, the man had disappeared far too quickly for Peter to get a proper read of him. In fact, he was likely perfectly nice. Susan wouldn’t put up with seeing anyone who wasn’t. Peter just didn’t think their courtship was quite what Susan purported it to be with her quick defense of his earlier departure. 

Not with the way she had looked at Arthur, or the letters Peter knew Arthur had kept with him. There were only ever two reasons a man held onto letters written in wartime. Peter, who knew them both, was inclined to believe Arthur’s reasoning was the more pleasant of the two.

Besides that, it was hard to miss the spark between Susan and Arthur. 

Edmund and Lucy had both joked endlessly at his oblivious nature, but even Peter wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t see what was laid out right in front of him. He certainly preferred it to whatever Susan had with Malcolm. 

He could be biased, of course, as he knew Arthur—a bit of a lonesome man as all men at war seemed to be, but still a good man. He was honorable, loyal, and fair, and Peter considered him a friend. 

But more than that, even with Malcolm in the picture, Susan had deemed Arthur worthy of her time and her thoughts—sharing enough that Arthur had kept the letters a secret from him, even when Peter had been the one to prompt that correspondence. That, perhaps, was more telling than anything else, and he tried to focus on it as he kept an eye on the two from afar.

Edmund hadn’t made plans for the day, beyond sitting his last exam for the spring term, so when Lucy suggested they hop a train down to London for the weekend, he hadn’t had much reason to object. There were plenty he could claim, but Lucy had been so eager that he had a hard time saying no. It was always that way with her.

Of course, it also didn’t hurt that his heart fluttered at the face Merlin pulled when Edmund agreed to the trip. Surprise and excitement shone in his eyes, and his smile… It hurt just looking at it. 

On the train, however, Edmund simply sat opposite them and watched the inside of his eyelids in feigned sleep. He might not have made plans for himself, but his thoughts were certainly busy with concerns he thought best not to share with Lucy or Merlin. He liked to work through matters methodically, one step at a time until there was nothing left but some new problem altogether. And it was only until after he’d sorted through any one issue that he even thought to bring it up with anyone, if it was even necessary.

Recent weeks, however, had found Edmund’s mind drifting back to the same three unresolved thoughts, and even though the school term was finished, they remained as prevalent as before. 

The first thought was that of his status with Hentley and the SIS. Edmund had, if his original scheduling with the man still held, the rest of the summer and the full fall term of schooling yet to go before he would have to prove his mettle in the field. Initially, the time had seemed atrociously long. But with the official end of the war having already come to pass, Edmund wasn’t so concerned with rushing out anymore.

The fallout of the war would change the nature of his soon-to-be work; as was often the case with battles of this scale. Waiting until the end of the year would allow various, new concerns to rise up out of the woodwork: concerns they could be proactive about instead of reactive, which was Edmund’s favorite type of work.

The second thought had not begun as a concern but rather an unexpected pleasantry that he now looked forward to and hoped not to take advantage of entirely. The remaining time in his program would allow him to spend more time with Lucy and Merlin, should they remain in Oxford, which certainly seemed to be the plan.

Even now, without even looking at the pair, Edmund had to fight the smile that threatened to give away his conscious state. Lucy’s bubbling excitement was contagious, jumping from her usual bouncing knees to the  _ taptaptap  _ of Merlin’s feet. They’d fallen into a routine in the past couple months, and Edmund had grown used to spending as much of his free time with them as their schedules allowed. Lucy was, as she normally was, both a comfort and a menace. But it had been years since he’d spent so much time with her that he didn’t mind the sudden wealth he’d been treated to. And Merlin, surprisingly, was just as easy to be around as Lucy was. Edmund had settled into a warm, comfortable existence with the other man that he tried not to think too hard about it, for fear of turning it into something it was not. 

The truth was, Edmund enjoyed his time with Merlin more than he was willing to admit aloud, even in the privacy of his own dormitory at the school. More than enjoying his time, he actively sought it out—both with and without Lucy’s additional company— when given the chance. It was a dangerous thing to get so attached, between society’s views and the life of secrets and lies Edmund was soon to be leading, but neither were new hurdles for him. Nor was he ready to forfeit Merlin to expectation or to anything else. 

In fact, Edmund was not ready to forfeit any part of the life he’d built for himself in the past few months—having the summer and the next term to enjoy whatever aspects of it he wished, was a blessing if ever there was one.

Edmund’s third thought was one he was surprised to find at all, though today, on the train to London, it made sense. His last visit to the city had not been a pleasant one, and he was still frustrated at the way it had gone—with Susan, with Malcolm, with Susan and Malcolm. It didn’t help that he hadn’t heard from Susan since. They were similarly stubborn in that regard, neither one feeling as though they’d been in the wrong. It was what had caused their few arguments in Narnia to drag as much as they did—finally resolving themselves by necessity. This argument, however, Edmund wasn’t sure how to handle.

He guessed that was the center of his current frustration with Susan: he didn’t truly know what was going on. Susan had yet to tell him, about anything, and it was such a departure from her typical behavior that Edmund was angry—at her for changing, and at himself, for missing it altogether, even if she hadn’t been around for him to see. 

It felt unnatural for there to be such a distance between them—physical or emotional—when, for years, there hadn’t even been room for either of them to breathe wrong without the other knowing. They’d known each other so well and been around each other so much, there wasn’t time or space for uncertainty. 

It was all Edmund felt now: overwhelming doubt about whether she was still with Malcolm, whether her opinion of Narnia remained the same, whether she was still angry with him, whether she would avoid them that weekend.

“Edmund, we’re here.”

He was grateful for the evening’s lack of light as he blinked his eyes open. Quickly, Edmund sent one solitary hope out into the void that the answer to each of these last concerns was no, and then he stood.

Silent as he followed the other two down the train corridor, Edmund resolved not to trouble himself with the issue again that night unless it came up on its own. It was the most he could manage for the time being, and, as Lucy had made no mention of seeing Susan tonight, Edmund turned his focus back to the happier of his thoughts. 

The night was young, Lucy was still bounding with enthusiasm for the evening, and Merlin wore a soft smile under bright eyes as he turned back to look at Edmund from the train platform, waiting. 

He stepped off with a light smile of his own and joined them.

Arthur watched the back of Peter’s head until it vanished among the crowds, giving himself time to think. 

He had been nervous about the night all day. They’d made it to London the night before, and it seemed that his punishment for falling asleep early was to spend the day on pins and needles after learning from Peter that Susan had invited him to a celebration that evening and he should come along.

He’d attempted to pass off his apprehension with concern and vague disinterest. Seeing Susan was something he wasn’t ashamed to want, but two points made it a bit more of a true predicament. One, his leg was still giving him trouble. Nothing severe or truly noticeable, if he moved carefully enough, but trouble was still trouble. Two, it was Peter he was going with. 

Arthur hadn’t been able to properly anticipate how Peter might have felt if he knew the extent to what he felt for Susan—especially given that all he had was a handful of letters. They were little more than words on paper in the larger picture, after all. So, in the end, he hadn’t broached the topic at all, thinking naively that it would not be necessary. Spending the day thinking ahead to this moment had done absolutely nothing for his nerves, though. 

Neither, of course, had actually seeing her. The moment he’d first seen her face, Arthur knew there would be no denying what he felt. He would just have to face Peter later, because Susan was so much more beautiful than he’d expected.

Peter had carried exactly one photo with him of him and his siblings together, in what looked like grade school uniforms. Arthur had also caught a glimpse of a sketch, of the four of them again, but far older this time in some kind of costume—ornate from their cloaks to the crowns. In that, he wasn’t sure how he recognized them, except perhaps that their smiles were alike. Peter had looked at it more than he did the photograph, but both had often remained tucked into the inner lining of his jacket. 

Arthur hadn’t asked after either one. A man’s treasure was his own. But he had been curious, and curiosity refused to let him forget either image. Susan’s beauty had been clearly evident, but neither quite captured the woman he stood with now.

There was no doubt that she was beautiful, more so than he had imagined, but there was something in her composure that he wouldn’t have been able to pick up in a photo, an illustration, or even in her writing. A defensiveness that seemed to come with the arrival of Malcolm—an unexpected complication that Arthur was doing his best not to think about it.

His efforts were, thankfully, shortly rewarded when both Malcolm and Peter departed, leaving him alone with Susan.

“Has my brother turned to drinking while he’s been away?” 

Arthur thought about it for a moment. They drank, often, but he didn’t think it had reached the point she seemed to be indicating. 

“It’s the people, I think,” he explained cautiously. “And the noise. It’s… different from what we’ve been used to these past few months.”

She frowned momentarily, and then, just before she nodded, he saw it. Understanding flashed across her face and disappeared just as quickly—a physical manifestation of the tone in her letters. Defensiveness aside, the Susan he’d gotten to know by word was there. Hidden a bit, perhaps, but Arthur wasn’t too surprised at that. 

It seemed to be a Pevensie trait, hiding themselves.

“Would you like to dance?” Arthur asked, encouraged, and hoping to change the mood. There was not much to be gained here, but he wasn’t sure there was truly much more that he could expect. They did not owe each other anything. We’re practically strangers—her with a beau, even—and yet, the moment she accepted his hand, a shock ran through him and he knew. If this was all he could have, he would request nothing more.

“I should thank you,” she said softly moments later as they stepped and turned to the music. 

When Susan spoke, he could barely hear anything else. There was a weight to her voice that he felt drawn to listen to with undivided attention. 

“Your letters. I appreciated them. Peter’s not exactly the best correspondent.”

He smiled, thinking there might just be a subtle amusement in her voice. “No, not particularly. But I should be the one thanking you. There wouldn’t be any letters for me if you had not chosen to write back. And it would be thoughtless of me not to express how much of a comfort they were.”

“Of course,” she said with a gentle smile. “I’m glad they were of help to you.”

He held her gaze for a moment, unsure of what else to say. He hated admitting that the letters they’d shared were more important to him than they perhaps should have been. Not because he was embarrassed of the fact, but because she was clearly involved with someone else, and it did not bode well for how he felt. 

It had been easier to build something out of nothing when several countries and a war stood between them. It was another thing altogether, even just to acknowledge the possibility, or impossibility, of something when face-to-face with one another.

Arthur had not thought, let alone allowed himself to hope, until that morning, that there might be anything real for them in this life. They were only strangers corresponding by page, after all. Ships passing in the night, aware of each other only by the waves they left in the other’s wake. Ripples of who they were, buried in the letters they wrote. 

But facing her now, catching hold of her gaze, Arthur lost himself in the deep sea of her eyes and remembered quite forcefully the feeling of being seen. He wondered how he could have been so wrong.

They weren’t strangers at all. They were known to each other. Perhaps not so much in physicality but in heart. The words she’d written had come from someplace tucked into the core of her being. And his words had brushed as close to the truth of his existence as he’d dared to let them.

“What is it?”

He felt a twinge of heat rush to his cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

“Arthur.” She said, smiling, her tone not unlike something he’d heard in Peter before. Demanding, but polite. As though she knew she would get the explanation she wanted. The Pevensies were a matched set if ever there was one. He was certain of it, and still, he was unable to keep the soft laugh from slipping past his lips.

“Arthur?”

He smiled, suddenly bold and brave. “You surprise me, is all.”

“Oh.” Her brows knit together faintly, but he noted the soft flush to her cheeks. “I surprise you?”

“Endlessly. One moment, I feel as though I know you. The next, you’re someone altogether new.”

She frowned at that, not harshly but distinctly—inquisitive. “Should I remind you that we’ve only just met?”

Susan caught his eye then, and he let the smile slip from his face, knowing she needed to see he was serious when he spoke. She was someone of vision, of clear and decided perception. He may have seen her by word alone, but she would need something else to see him. 

“Have we?” 

There was a stretch of silence between them, filled with nothing but the music and the echoing noise of those around them. “Simple correspondence does not make a meeting.”

“No, but I would hardly call it simple,” he countered. Arthur watched the light shift in her eyes as they moved across the floor. Then he added, “Survival isn’t quite so easy, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” she answered shortly, pausing for a moment before pressing on. “But it can be worthwhile, I think.”

“To see spring again?”

Susan looked up at him so openly then, Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to do but keep hold of her and her gaze. It looked a bit like one of pain. Muted, though, as if tucked away and shoved aside. He wondered, briefly, how close it was to the pain Peter hid away.

“I rather prefer the summer, myself.”

“So you wrote,” he smiled, recalling the words. “It’s warmer and brighter. Less a time of transition, more long lasting.”

“Yes.”

“A time of hope, too, I think you said.”

“Peace,” she corrected.

“Are they different?”

“Hope comes before the peace.”

“What comes after?”

She faltered then, stumbling over her footing for half a step before righting herself against his grip.

“Are you alright?” he asked, ignoring the twinge in his leg and the drop of his heart, but she only looked back up to him. 

“Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, sometime.” She spoke with such a solemn tone, he struggled not to hold her closer. To give her the comfort that she so obviously yearned for. Her voice, her words, they were laced with the excruciating pain of loss. And not just any loss, but the kind that buried itself deep in one’s memory, to become a reminder of everything a person had ever loved and everything they could ever lose.

“And if you fight to survive?”

Her smile was light and practiced, barely wide enough to cover the brokenness underneath. 

“Fights all end in one of two ways, Arthur. Either you win, or you lose, and often, when you lose, you lose it all. Either way, you’re left to pick up the pieces.”

Arthur felt a bit of his heart give at that, and it must have shown on his face, since she then asked if he was still surprised.

He was more in awe, if he was honest, because Susan wasn’t just hiding pain, she was riddled with it. And somehow, she was still standing. Still smiling and still radiant. 

She wasn’t just surprising. She was inspiring—filled with a depth of agony he did not understand, and yet wrapped up in unfathomable fortitude.

Every part of him was desperate to kiss her, then. To taste that sort of strength and be a better man for it.

Arthur looked briefly away from her for the first time since leading her out to dance, in search, first of Peter, and then any sign of Malcolm. 

But the man who caught his attention was a far cry from either blond. Over the crowd, Arthur only managed to catch his hair, but he knew the feeling stirring in his gut as he watched the dark brown mop slink away from the two people who’d just joined Peter.

“Arthur?”

He turned back, cursing his luck, and then, despite it, smiled slightly. “I think, perhaps we’d better see who your brother’s found.”

She looked over, frown lingering for only a few seconds before lifting. “I didn’t know Lucy and Edmund would be here!”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, recognizing the names and wondering how they might have arrived, and how they knew  _ him _ . But Susan was already moving, so Arthur had little choice but to follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i started this fic, i planned for this great big collision between all the characters roughly halfway through everything. looking back, i can't say it turned out exactly the way i envisioned, but i'm still quite excited to share the next few chapters with you. things get interesting for everyone once the (various different) truths start to come spilling out :)
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated  
> and i'm always available on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> see you next week for the new chapter!


	10. LONDON. LATE MAY 1945

London was different with friends, Merlin decided.

He’d been to the city about a century or two prior, even lived in it for a few decades. Merlin couldn’t remember for certain, when. He just knew it was different now. 

Lucy’s spontaneous suggestion to head down to London for the weekend had them passing the Finchley station near suppertime. However, having eaten on the train, they stayed on all the way into the city and followed Lucy jauntily from the station, bypassing the shops and restaurants altogether in favor of whatever it was she had in mind for their evening.

It turned out to be a dance hall where she was quick to disappear between the throngs of people crowding the entrance. He tracked the sound of her voice, loud and bright as she joined the group of girls along the far wall. 

“Come on, before someone asks to dance.” Edmund nudged him gently after his sister, the instruction to follow in her wake as clear as the hall was loud, and crowded.

“Not a dancer?” he asked over his shoulder, but when Edmund didn’t respond, Merlin wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to or because he hadn’t heard the question.

“Merlin, there you are!” Lucy exclaimed when they finally reached her. “Where’s Edmund?” 

“I… he was…” he frowned, looking around, but Edmund was nowhere to be seen. 

“Oh, nevermind. This is Victoria, Anne, and Prudence, from the Home Guard.”

The girls each smiled in turn, but then Victoria regarded Merlin with a quizzical expression.

“Merlin? Like the wizard?” 

“ _Exactly_ like the wizard,” he answered.

“Wait.” Anne cut in, looking from Merlin to Lucy. “Is this the one you mentioned in your letters?” 

“Know a lot of Merlins, do you, Anne?” Lucy laughed, and Anne’s cheeks turned a subtle shade of pink. “Yes, this is him.” 

“Well, I guess we can forgive you for forgetting to write.” Prudence spoke succinctly, a grin in her eyes as she looked at him. “You didn’t mention he was cute.” 

Merlin couldn’t imagine Lucy as someone who would forget anything, but she took their teasing as she took everything: lightly and with enough amusement that grace didn’t matter. 

“If I forgot anything, it was the steps to this dance,” she said with a laugh, grabbing their hands. “Come show me again!” 

She pulled them away, and Merlin was left on his own to wait for his thoughts to catch up. Whatever Lucy might have written about him, the girls clearly thought favorably of him—weird as his name may have been for this day and age.

“Here. You look like you could use it.” Edmund returned—from where, Merlin wasn’t entirely certain, until he saw two champagne flutes in hand. “It was all they had.”

It looked fancier than it tasted, but it would do. “You missed Lucy and the girls.”

“Oh, I’ve met them before.” 

He said it so plainly, Merlin wondered if there was something on his mind. Edmund was more subdued in public, he had noticed, more aware of himself and the emotions he did or did not let show. But he seemed drawn further into himself tonight than he usually was, and it was curious to see him this way.

Then again, the evening was rather different from their usual, quieter nights, and Edmund was very much a man of habit. It was entirely likely the change of pace was simply throwing him off. 

Merlin leaned back against the wall with a quiet sigh, and quickly found the quartet of girls spinning in the center of the room. He watched them for awhile, musing over the day. 

It was just like Lucy to suggest a last-minute trip for something like this. As if she’d known they needed something different, even if just for a few nights, to break up the routine they’d fallen into. 

It was a good reminder for him, honestly. Merlin had forced himself out of creating long-lasting habits exceedingly early on in his years, worried that he might become complacent and forget himself and his purpose. With the Pevensies, of late, he hadn’t felt the threat of it so much. In fact, he was much more willing to accept that there could be something calming and enjoyable about a regular cycle of events. Still, it didn’t hurt to break out of a pattern.

“Merlin?”

Pulled gently from his thoughts by the soft tone of Edmund’s voice, he answered with a soft hum.

“How’s your dancing?”

Merlin arched an eyebrow in Edmund’s direction, knowing he’d see, even if only from his periphery. “Why? Are you asking?”

“What? No!” Edmund spat, turning to stare wide-eyed at him for just a moment. Then, his eyes darted around to their surrounding company, and the rest of his features settled. “No. I just—”

“You’re not going to stand here against the wall all night, are you?” Merlin only had time to register Lucy’s voice before he felt her hand grip his. “The girls are asking after you two.”

There was a shuffle as Merlin and Edmund both attempted to set their glasses down while being pulled out on the dancefloor, but Merlin himself did not protest too much. He wasn’t a great dancer, but he was feeling a bit restless.

Edmund, however, seemed entirely uninterested. “I don’t know, Lu.”

“Oh, you had a blast last time. Come on!”

Merlin raised an eyebrow at Edmund, wanting to hear that story, but Lucy pulled them both into the crowd without waiting for either of them to slip away.

“We’ll go somewhere quieter after, I promise. Prudence mentioned something over on Coventry Street.”

“Prudence?” Edmund asked, skepticism dripping from his lips.

“Oh, relax, would you? I’m sure you’re not that bad a dancer,” Merlin teased, earning a laugh from Lucy that easily overshadowed her brother’s scowl.

Despite his hesitance, Edmund was a decent sport, and, to Merlin’s surprise, quite comfortable on the dance floor—at least where the actual steps were concerned.

They both danced with all four of the girls, but Edmund only really began to relax after he took Lucy’s hand. Merlin wasn’t sure what caused him to do it, exactly, considering the music had slowed. 

After a moment, though, he was content to step back and watch the pair of them. The way they moved was rare—entirely in step with one another despite being out of time with everyone else, like they were following music that was altogether different—and Merlin needed to focus to properly take it in, to memorize the way they spun each other around, the soft curve to Edmund’s lips as he reflected Lucy’s smile in his own way, and the squeal she gave to fill the spaces around it. They were a snapshot of glee. A high point in the life Merlin had in this moment, and he wanted to preserve it. 

This was what he wanted to remember when he forgot what humanity looked like. This is what he wanted to think of when he needed strength in the loneliness that was sure to return to him, sometime in the future.

It was properly dark when they finally bid everyone goodnight, and Merlin’s restlessness had calmed some. But it wasn’t entirely gone, so he, Edmund, and Lucy started over to the party Prudence had mentioned—another party seemed appropriate. 

When they arrived, however, he almost wished they hadn’t bothered. 

It was brighter and classier here than it had been where they had been dancing, and they were horribly underdressed, out of place. One look at Edmund, and Merlin knew he felt the same.

“Look, it’s Peter!” Lucy shouted, oblivious to how much they already stood out as she took off running toward a man over by the edge of the room. 

Merlin had only ever seen him in his own mind so far, courtesy of Lucy’s descriptions over the past several weeks and in the rare, outdated photo, but the oldest Pevensie looked every bit the man he had expected. Tall and broad, it was easy to see him as a king. Until, of course, Lucy collided with him. 

Edmund snickered at the way his brother stumbled, if only slightly, and Merlin allowed himself a soft smile. He imagined that Peter was only able to catch his sister’s jumping form by virtue of habit—a leftover reflex from their other life, perhaps. 

“Lucy?”

“Who else, silly?” she answered, falling back to her own two feet as Edmund and Merlin joined them, a grin wide across her face. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“Su invited me.”

“Susan’s here, too?” Edmund asked, head already turning to scan the room. 

They all looked, as if drawn to the couple on the dance floor. A woman in a deep blue dress, shoulders bare but for the dark curls that fell around her face, just brushing her collarbones. She danced with a man whose dark suit was just as striking against his fair hair.

She was a beauty and very clearly had the same Pevensie air about her, demanding their attention. But Merlin felt, in the space between one pounding heartbeat and the next, that his gaze had been drawn across the floor not by Susan’s magnetism, but by the man’s. The pull was frantic, latching onto a frayed and forgotten heartstring, unraveling from centuries of neglect.

“Who’s that with her?” Edmund asked.

Merlin couldn’t hear Peter’s reply or properly see the face of the man turning Susan around the floor. But he didn’t need to. There were so many things he’d forgotten over the years. Names of places and people. The seasons in which they died or he left. There were entire civilizations he’d watched rise, only to see them fall into the waste of time. But this man wasn’t someone he could ever lose, even if, at times, he had wanted to forget.

“I need some air.”

Only Edmund seemed to hear him, and for the pained look on his face alone, Merlin could have stayed.

He would have, if not for the force of a thousand years winding itself around his chest, urging him to go, to be anywhere else. Obedient to time, and nothing else, Merlin had no other choice.

He turned and fled.

Edmund hadn’t expected a reunion tonight, let alone one with both his older siblings. 

Peter was a happy surprise. Edmund had made a point of keeping track of where he’d gone, when his brother had first left England. But it became too complicated, with too many lines of red tape. There was so much they couldn’t explain in their letters, to say nothing of how long it took to receive them. So the fact that they were together tonight was a small miracle. 

Susan was another story, though Edmund was having a trickier time keeping hold of it. Be it the alcohol or the situation, he couldn't be sure. But he was surprised to find he was still upset with her, even after all these months. Annoyed, rather, and it affected him more than he wanted to admit, setting him on edge even before noticing Merlin. 

The shift he felt in his friend came just before Peter named the man dancing with their sister, and Edmund turned, catching it in his periphery—the way Merlin’s entire expression seemed to harden and fall all at once. And when Edmund realized who he was looking at the conclusion crashed into him.

Merlin knew Arthur.

It was irrational, then, the way his thoughts unraveled. Edmund knew it, and still he let them run. Logic told him that what he was considering was highly unlikely. He and Susan hadn’t talked, whether directly or through either of their siblings, in months. There was no way for her to know about Merlin. Lucy could have told her, he supposed, but she knew better than that when it came to Edmund’s personal business. Beyond that, even if she had found out somehow, Susan wasn’t this cruel. She wouldn’t go through the trouble of dancing with someone Merlin knew, and very clearly had some sort of history with, just to put Edmund in a tizzy at the reaction. There were too many factors in this plan that Susan would have had to control, too many elements to manipulate in just the right way. 

In Narnia, he might not have second-guessed his worry. As queen, Susan had been fully capable of weaving such a complicated web. Edmund had learned it from her, after all. But they weren’t in Narnia. Susan didn’t even want to think of Narnia. 

So, this wasn’t just a far-fetched plan, but an impossible one. 

But logic was far-fetched, and his sense were still a bit blurred at the edges, and all Edmund could remember was that the game they’d started months ago was theoretically still in play. In his current state—more irrational and emotional than he ever preferred to be—there was only one thing he could really, properly grasp between the trouble Merlin’s expression revealed and the attraction between Susan and Arthur.

She had made her move, intentionally or not, and it was a pivotal one. 

“I need some air,” Merlin gasped, and it was all Edmund could do to stand there as he left. His mind suddenly coming to a screeching halt after spinning too quickly.

“Are they together?” he asked quietly, turning slowly back to Peter and Lucy, his voice tight as he reined in the most rampant of his nonsensical worries.

“No, he’s a friend of mine, actually,” Peter answered, and a part of Edmund immediately reeled, tabulating the preposterous measures Susan would have had to go through to make this happen. The incredible number of various people, connections, and appearances she would have had to arrange and time for this to turn out as it was—a spectacular punch to the gut that left him speechless. 

Then, Peter’s answer truly sank in, and the rest of Edmund caught up to pull himself back.

For a second, he wondered how Peter always managed to temper him, without even knowing it. Edmund felt as reassured as Lucy looked, with Peter’s arms around her, pulled close and safe. 

Suddenly, Edmund felt ashamed and flustered. Susan and Arthur… whatever there was between them wasn’t some planned slight against him. It had nothing to do with Edmund at all. The electricity between them, swaying back and forth on the dance floor, was real. Edmund had panicked over nothing.

Well, not nothing exactly. Merlin’s reaction to seeing Arthur hadn’t been fabricated, after all. But everyone had secrets from their past that returned when they least expected them, and Edmund could handle the coincidence of that kind of secret later. Much later.

“But Su was here with someone. Marcus, I think he said his name was? Something of that sort anyway. He wasn’t around for long, and I’m not sure where he went.”

Peter’s eyebrows had knitted together in an effort to remember the name properly, but Edmund didn’t need it. He’d sobered enough by this point, his thoughts more clear now than before, even if his body was still sluggishly attempting to catch up.

His argument with Susan rushed back to him once more. It wasn’t tainted with impossibility this time, but he still felt awash with a desperate hostility. As if it was a larger insult against him for Susan to have remained in Malcolm’s company than it was for her to have concocted the illogical and absurd plan he’d just imagined.

“An American?”

“Yes, that’s right. You know him?” Peter asked, curious.

Edmund nodded, but before he could elaborate, Susan’s voice cut between them.

“Lucy! Edmund! What are you doing here?” 

He directed his gaze to her, searching her face for even the smallest sign of a fight. 

There wasn’t one.

But he knew appearances could be deceiving.

“It was a bit too loud at the dance hall down the road,” Lucy answered ecstatically, before extending a hand out to Arthur. “Hello! I’m Lucy.”

He smiled and shook her hand. “A pleasure.”

“This is our brother, Edmund, and this is…” Lucy introduced, trailing as she looked around. “Where did he go?”

“Where did who go?” 

Edmund winced, recognizing the strident voice. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to forget such a buoyant and grating tone. 

“Malcolm, you're back!”

“Yes, and it seems you’ve multiplied.” He looked around and nodded at Edmund before turning to Lucy. “Lucy, it’s been awhile!”

“Yes. Hello,” she said shortly, staring up at the newcomer. Edmund was keen to notice that she did not extend her hand as she had with Arthur.

“It’s good to see you again, but… was there someone else with you?”

“He stepped out,” Edmund explained tersely. “Said he needed some air.”

“Who was it?” Susan asked.

“Merlin,” Lucy answered. “I wrote to you about him, remember?”

“Merlin?” Arthur repeated, drawing all their attention with the weight of recognition in his voice. He didn’t look quite as shocked as Merlin had—more baffled, as if there were some level of impossibility in hearing the name. 

“Should I have someone go see that he’s alright?” Malcolm offered, clearly catching the shared concern among the group.

“No, I’ll do it.” 

“I can go.”

Edmund turned sharply toward Arthur but said nothing, content to stare. It was petty, but he felt a shallow pride at managing to put such a look of quiet discontent on Arthur’s face.

When Peter’s voice cut softly between them, it was with a recognizable weight—lofty but solid—and Edmund swallowed his ego, cooling his expression into something less hostile.

“Arthur?” Peter asked. “Are you sure?”

“It’s alright,” he insisted, straightening as he pulled his eyes from Edmund to the others. An easy grin formed across his face, and Edmund bristled at the sight of it. “I wouldn’t mind some air myself, and you all should catch up with your family.”

“We’ll be right here when you get back,” Lucy said, before Edmund had chance. He could feel her fingers slipping carefully around his wrist, and he clenched his hands in response. He wanted to be angry, but between Lucy’s physical restraint and Peter having addressed Arthur specifically, Edmund was reminded of where they were and who he answered to. 

Arthur, to his credit, seemed more perspective than Edmund had initially guessed him to be, and waited a moment, looking to him again. For permission this time.

He managed a single nod and then watched Arthur turn, bitter that he could not go, himself. But his hands were tied. Arthur had pointed out a clear truth—this was the first time Edmund and his siblings were all together in the same place in years.

“I wish I’d have known you all would be in town tonight,” Susan said softly, before the silence of Arthur’s departure could expand into something further.

“Yes,” Malcolm agreed. “We could have prepared a bit better.”

Edmund quirked an eyebrow. “Prepared?” 

“Well, I could have pulled out a dress for you, Lucy,” Susan said, as if it were an obvious thing. Nevermind that Lucy looked perfectly fine in her own clothes and had a rather long-standing distaste for the fancier London fashion. 

Ignoring Lucy’s tightening grip around his wrist, Edmund narrowed his gaze at Susan. “Isn’t what she’s got on good enough?” 

“Well, it isn’t quite appropri—" Malcolm started, before Susan rested a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Oh, don’t interrupt, Susan. I’d like to know what Malcolm thinks our dear sister isn’t appropriate for.”

“Ed.”

“Edmund!”

He ignored Peter and Lucy both in favor of staring at Malcolm, whose presence was putting a damper on Edmund’s already sour mood. “Truly, I’d like to know.”

“You’re being unreasonable, Edmund,” Susan said. Her voice was low but severe. Any other night, he might have recognized the threat in it. 

Tonight, it sounded like a joke.

Susan might not have devised the scheme he had lost himself in just minutes before, but the truth of the matter remained: they had never resolved their argument. They hadn’t talked in months. And Edmund certainly hadn’t forgotten the evening or the man that had sparked their fight in the first place.

“Unreasonable? Lucy’s inappropriate, and I’m unreasonable?” Edmund scoffed. “What next, Susan? Are you going to try and tell me Malcolm here has proposed and you’ll be planning an early spring wedding?” 

It was a leap and Edmund knew it, but Malcolm coughed, prompting him, prompting them all, to turn.

“Well, actually…”

“Malcolm?” Susan’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. 

“You can’t be serious,” Edmund murmured, ignoring Susan altogether. “Oh, god. You are. You actually think…” He couldn’t help himself then, and the laughter rippled through him. 

“Ed,” Peter warned. He was the only one of them who might have managed to get Edmund to step back. To think before he reacted further. But it was too late. Angry and frustrated and perhaps a bit hysterical, Edmund couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

“You can’t be serious.” 

“So what if he is?”

Edmund turned from Malcolm to Susan, incredulous of the reprimand written on her face. He sobered quickly, shifting his focus easily.

“Then I guess the real question is if you’re serious about considering it. I wouldn’t have expected you to let something like this go on for so long.”

“I told you before, Edmund.” She spoke carefully, the way she did when trying not to make a scene. Though if that was what she wanted, she really should have chosen her words more carefully. “I’m not who you think I am anymore.” 

“And I told you that you’re better than all this, the _pretending_. You know it, too. Or did I just imagine that look on your face earlier when you were dancing with Arthur?”

“Ed!”

“What?” he asked, turning to Peter. “Was that a secret? Should I not have mentioned it? A blind man could see it, y—”

He staggered back, surprised at the weight behind Malcolm’s fist. 

“Edmund!”

“Malcolm!”

The man could punch, at least. He could give him that. But Edmund was faster, and having had more experience than most ever guessed for someone of his build, he knew how to fight back in ways very few could anticipate.

Edmund ran at him, tucked low to take advantage of his own smaller frame and Malcolm landed square on his back where he did not have leverage enough to dislodge his attacker.

He landed one solid left hook before he was reminded that the three people who could read him in a fight all happened to be standing right behind him. Unfortunately—though perhaps fortunately for Malcolm—Peter caught his shoulder.

Of all his siblings, Peter knew how to predict Edmund’s movements best. The same way Edmund could see his. It was what made them such good partners in a fight, able to rely on each other without question. Tonight, it only served to keep Malcolm from being pummeled into the marble floor. 

“That’s enough, Ed.” 

He didn’t raise another hand, but he didn’t move out of Peter’s grip either. Instead, Edmund waited until the weight on his shoulder lifted, and then he stood. Slowly. 

“I think,” Lucy said carefully into the sustained silence that wrapped around them, “we should get going.”

Peter shuffled back. “Ed?”

He didn’t turn, didn’t bother to look up at anyone who was staring—a small gathering near the wall. His gaze was still locked on Malcolm, who remained prone on the floor, and on Susan, who knelt beside him now to help him sit up. 

Edmund wanted to see her face. 

When she finally looked up, her eyes sought his and Edmund was not disappointed. Solid and cold, hers was a deadly stare that matched his own. It was the only one he knew that ever could.

Finally. They were on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a rough chapter to pull together. edmund's reactions felt very forced when i wrote them, and i tried to smooth it all out, but sometimes the characters do what they want without your say-so. i'm still not fully happy with all this, but it worked for the story, mostly and that's about as best as I could do for what comes next for everyone.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated  
> i'm also available on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> see you next week for the new chapter!


	11. LONDON/FINCHLEY. LATE MAY 1945

Merlin didn’t quite make it outside before his conscience caught up to him. But even the open air did little to calm his pounding heart—whether it was joy or remorse that caused the tightening in his chest, he didn’t know.

Arthur was here, alive and well, obviously adjusted to the world. And Merlin hadn’t known it. He should have. He thought something in the twisted nature of their damned destinies would have alerted him to Arthur’s presence long before tonight. 

He didn’t dare entertain the possibility that the signs had been there and he’d just ignored them. That truth would shove its way into the chambers of his heart and expand until there was nothing left, and Merlin couldn’t risk that.

Instead, he stood outside and listened to his heart return to its usual unearthly slow beat, looking up at the sky. He picked out the dim and distant specks of light against the black canvas, grappling, for as long as he felt safe, with the way time played him for a fool. Doing so allowed him the opportunity to ignore the growing discomfort at the weight of destiny settling back onto his shoulders.

At the beginning, his task had been rather simple. Arthur was to be a great king prophesied to bring about an era of peace and rule the land of Albion. And Merlin was to protect him and aid in his journey to do so. Arthur hadn’t made it easy, of course, but Merlin had gotten quite adept at doing as he was meant to despite the odds. 

Then, Arthur had died, and for all his magic, for all his skill, Merlin couldn’t save him. It was this failure that had cemented Merlin’s decision to wait for Arthur to return. However long, however many lifetimes he had to wait, he had known that the first promise he ever made to Arthur would hold—Merlin would serve him until the day he died. 

Eventually, the years had stretched into decades, and then into centuries. Merlin had counted them at first, until it made more sense to track the time in disasters: The Black Plague, the Lisbon Earthquake, revolutions across the world. But so many of these things were localized, limited in their reach. So when the First World War came, Merlin had been so sure that Arthur would be there. The war was meant to end all wars—if that wasn’t a call for peace, Merlin wasn’t sure what was.

But the war came and went with no sign of Arthur or even the slightest hint of his return, and Merlin’s steadfast belief, already brittle from the endless centuries, finally broke. He spent the two decades since oscillating between ignoring his destiny and obsessing over it. Merlin had analyzed what parts of his destiny had been his own and what parts had felt like obligations, until he grew sick with the guilt and shame of warping the friendship he’d had with Arthur, with Gwen, with Gaius, with Lancelot and Gwaine and all the others.

On and on it had gone, until finally, it reached the point where Merlin had to stop altogether, else he would lose himself entirely. And so he shifted his focus from waiting to surviving. There didn’t seem to be much more he could do.

That Arthur was back now, for _this_ war, after Merlin had already given up on him—it was a bitter irony that left him breathless. He had lost trust in his friend, in his own magic, in everything he had once dedicated his entire being to. And he’d lost sight of what their individual and collective existence meant, both for each other and for the world. The responsibility, the burden; Merlin had left it all behind, and here Arthur threatened to bring it all back.

That was the truth behind Arthur’s presence, after all.

His return was meant to be a sign of something larger. It always had; Merlin had known for centuries now that whatever called Arthur back from his slumber in Avalon would be something broken. Something he would have to piece together and make whole again, and Merlin had had no doubt that he was meant to join him in that endeavor.

But after spending the past thousand years waiting for Arthur, Merlin surprisingly found he wanted just a little more time.

Merlin wanted to hold onto the small bit of happiness he’d pocketed in the past few months before having to go back to matters of fate. He wanted both, to enjoy the life he had so quickly settled into, while still doing all that he meant to do with Arthur. But doing so required sharing the part of himself he’d hidden away from those most likely to accept it. To reveal it now, after the fact, was a betrayal neither Lucy nor Edmund deserved.

It was his own fault, really, that he felt so cornered. He could have been open and honest from the start. But where Lucy and Edmund had shared their own secrets, Merlin had been selfish to take them without offering his own in return. It seemed he still hadn’t learned the value of trust. 

Merlin didn’t know how long he stood there, braced against the stone pillar of the front entrance way—seconds, minutes, years? Time hardly had any meaning for him anymore. But then he heard his name, and despite himself, despite everything, Merlin still looked up, unable to deny the call of that voice, deep and steady.

Arthur was exactly as he remembered him. Golden blond hair was just as bright, and his eyes that piercing, brilliant blue. There was even that solemn look of trepidation on his face, like he wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure, and wouldn’t let himself hope. 

Just the sight of him was, annoyingly, enough to ease the pressure in Merlin’s chest. That was the nature in which their souls entwined—each one half of the other. This was the way of their hearts. Eternity could pass in the blink of an eye, just the same as a moment could stretch out into infinity, and nothing between them would change. Arthur would always be the best and worst man to have at his side, and Merlin, for all he hated the turmoil of their endeavors, would follow him anywhere just for that slight feeling of serenity.

“Hello, Merlin. It’s… been awhile.”

He nodded, shakily, not yet trusting his voice again. He was waiting to measure out the truth of the emotions he felt against the reality of the man in front of him.

“I…erm. I told them I’d make sure you were alright. Lucy and… Edmund, I think it was?”

He winced at their names, and his first thought was to confirm that yes, it would be Edmund. But he couldn’t. Merlin couldn’t bring himself to say anything at all.

“Are you? Alright, I mean…”

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say no. Gods, it had been so long since he’d wanted anything from Arthur, let alone _this_. The least he could do was give a proper answer to his wellbeing.

But Merlin was both and neither, okay and not, because the flutter about his heart wasn’t happiness. 

It was guilt, and he didn’t know how to say so.

Arthur had always known that one day, he would cross paths with Merlin. He’d been unsure about the others, whose pull seemed to vary over time, in and out of his dreams. But with Merlin, he’d always known—had even thought to look in earnest for him once he’d finished school. Then, the war started and those plans had been postponed. 

Faced with having Merlin right in front of him, however, Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to say. Or rather, what to say _first_. He wanted to know everything. Where he’d been, what his life had been like, if he too was caught up in this war. 

“Hello, Merlin. It’s… been a while.”

He nodded, a bit jerkily, as though he were timid. In fact, he seemed a bit hesitant in even responding that much. He was not quite like the Merlin he remembered.

Arthur had imagined his reunion with Merlin so many times over the course of his life, he had lost track of the versions he anticipated most often. But of every scene he had played out, he had never thought it could be possible that Merlin would not respond to him—even just to give a simple hello. 

It was unusual.

“I…erm. I told them I’d make sure you were alright. Lucy and… Edmund, I think it was?”

At that, Merlin blanched and opened his mouth, briefly, as though he meant to say something. Then, he clammed up once more. 

“Are you? Alright, I mean…” Arthur tried again, wary now of the hollow look on Merlin’s face. The longer he stared at it, the more he wanted to wipe it away. He’d never liked to see Merlin upset.

It was unnerving.

“Merlin?”

He nodded, but still said nothing, and though Arthur held out patiently for a few minutes, his worry pushed him toward a heated anger that strangely only felt natural with Merlin.

“Well, then say something, would you?” he snapped, causing Merlin to jump and scramble for words.

“I didn’t…” Clearing his throat didn’t help much, given that Merlin’s next words came at a whisper. They were barely audible over the noise coming from inside the hall and Arthur strained to hear him. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

He stared, as much guilty for having raised his voice as he was certain he’d misheard Merlin altogether. Then, Merlin began rambling, his voice only a hair louder than a whisper.

“I thought you… that you would never… Are you even…”

Any other time, Arthur might have called Merlin on his dramatics, but he noticed something in Merlin’s pale face that made him take his friend—were they friends?—by the shoulder and guide him from the building, down the steps and away from everyone else. 

“It’s alright, Merlin.” Arthur was trying to assure him, but as they reached the street he wondered if he had ever seen Merlin panic quite like this before.

He had always worried a great deal, Arthur knew, and rambled on and on about this or that in order to distract himself when nervous. His prattle had been a surprisingly enjoyable quality, though at times Arthur had wanted nothing more than to stuff Merlin mouth with his scarf to get him to shut up. 

However, when worry truly gripped him, Merlin was always too quiet. Severe and dangerous in his silence, a worried Merlin had always been eager to take matters into his own hands, no matter if he had a plan or not. 

This cowering, stuttering man, face awash with some kind of twisted pain—this wasn’t someone Arthur recognized.

Clearly, Merlin’s experience in this life was not like his. Perhaps he hadn’t had the same kind of knowledge that Arthur had, to believe the other one was alive. Arthur hadn’t truly understood his own past until he had started to go to school, after all, and it wasn’t as though he had met any of the others from his previous life to know what was normal for this second life. Maybe Merlin’s memories had come slower. Maybe they had not come at all until this moment.

The thought sank like a stone in the pit of his stomach. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, when it sounded as if Merlin had calmed down a bit. 

He gave a shallow nod. 

“I didn’t mean to shout. I just…” He paused. “Merlin, please. Just say something.”

“Arthur…” Merlin’s voice was still quiet, but to hear his name come from his lips filled Arthur up. “Oh, gods. It is you.” 

“Of course. Who else would I be?”

“I just…” Merlin took a breath, then another, eyes darting around his face, up and down his body. “I didn’t think you’d be coming back.”

“So you’ve said…” Arthur’s half smile faltered and he glanced around. “Let’s walk a bit. I’d rather not… the people.”

Their conversation wouldn’t seem so far out of place—there were still soldiers who had yet to return home, and plenty more who never would. But there were things Arthur wanted to know that he couldn’t ask about with strangers so close.

They walked for several minutes in silence, turning down a few different streets until the crowds thinned, until the echo of their shoes against the ground was all Merlin could hear. They’d fallen in step with one another, somehow, and the steady beat felt like a ticking clock until finally, that too stopped. Time had caught up to him after all.

“How long?” Merlin asked, doing his best to hold onto what sanity he had left. “How long have you known…?”

“I’ve had some rather…vivid dreams for as long as I can remember. The daytime visions are much more recent, but less frequent. Overall, I suppose I didn’t really know until I was about five, maybe six.”

“Five…” He turned the number over in his head before realizing what it meant. “You were reborn.”

“I…” Arthur looked at him curiously, and Merlin averted his gaze. “Yes. To Thomas and Emily King, in Manchester.”

He coughed. “King?”

“Yes, I know.” The smile in Arthur’s voice was sharp, cutting deep into Merlin’s chest.

“Are they nice?”

“They were, I think. She died giving birth, and he… I spent most of my childhood at boarding school.” Arthur frowned but only momentarily. “He served in the last war, and he certainly tried to be there for me, but I don’t think he ever got used to behind home again. He… uh, passed on, just after I’d left secondary.”

Merlin was quiet for a minute, suddenly awash with the memories. He’d been in and out of warfare for so long, he’d never quite felt the lingering terror of dangers that weren’t actually present. Not the way other men did after they came home. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t haunted, himself. The last war had left him hollow enough for all his ghosts to make a home.

“Mer—”

“Then what?” Merlin interrupted. There were other things about Arthur he needed to know, and things about himself he was desperate not to share. 

Arthur frowned, but didn’t hesitate to answer. “He left me the house in Manchester, but I had it sold. It was too big for just me. Moved into a flat and I worked for a year or so, even considered university.”

A hazy image of Arthur flashed through his mind, but the picture of him doing manual labor of any sort was unfeasible. It almost made him want to smile. 

“But then the war started, and I signed up. Figured of all the places you could be, it’d be in the fight. I thought… Merlin?”

Merlin hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking until Arthur paused. But there he was, just beyond an arm’s length behind him, frozen to the spot at the thought that Arthur expected him to have gone to war. That Arthur had thought of him at all.

“You thought… I’d be out there?” he choked out, grasping at the frayed edges of the thought that was struggling to form.

Arthur nodded, expression smoothing out into something solemn. “I thought if you were anything like me, you’d be there. And I knew I needed to find you.”

Merlin could only imagine what he looked like then. For all his magic, he had never quite managed a proper out of body experience, but this felt close. Crumbling to pieces from the inside out, he felt like the mess he knew he must appear to be. 

“What is it?”

“I’m not like you, Arthur,” he muttered, refusing to bring his head up.

“Not like me? I don’t— Oh. You mean… you have magic again?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Merlin rubbed at his face. His magic was another complication altogether. “I do have magic, but…” 

“But what?”

Cautiously, he lifted his head to meet Arthur’s gaze and wished he hadn’t. 

He looked so earnest. So eager to know what Merlin was about to say. Didn’t he know that it would hurt? That it was already killing him, just to think of the words?

“I didn’t think you’d come back…” 

“You’ve said that already, Merlin.”

Merlin focused on his breathing, but it did painfully little against the chill that ran down his spine at the familiar tones of annoyed authority in Arthur’s voice. Still, he tried again. “I didn’t believe you were coming back anymore.”

A beat. 

“Explain.”

Merlin took a breath—he knew an order when he heard one. “I’ve waited for you for a long time.”

“How long?”

Arthur was asking for an explanation, nothing more, but Merlin still felt it was a confession. One he wanted nothing more than to forget. But he had to answer. It was Arthur asking, after all, and even now, he still had that kind of pull.

“How long, Merlin?”

Ignoring the lump in his throat that refused to soften, he swallowed and looked Arthur squarely in the eye. If it was a confession he wanted, Merlin would give it to him properly.

“Long enough to lose count of the years.”

The words were quiet—paired with something Merlin’s eyes that made Arthur wary, apprehensive of what waited in the shallow silence Merlin seemed determined to keep—but it was not their softness that Arthur couldn’t properly grasp. It was their meaning. 

He didn’t know how long it would take for him to lose count of something, but Merlin hardly looked older than he was himself. 

“I don’t—”

Merlin interrupted him, shoulders heaving a bit, as though it took everything in him to force out the words. “I never died, Arthur.”

Silence fell between them as he grasped for something to say, anything at all. But the longer he waited, the more he understood. 

Arthur had thought Merlin looked off, hollow somehow. As though everything in him had been carved out and replaced with nothing but pain. As though just being here, in front of him, hurt, somehow. Arthur hadn’t known how, exactly, but he did now.

_I didn’t believe you were coming back anymore._

It wasn’t that Merlin didn’t know he would return. 

_Long enough to lose count of the years_.

It was that he had known, and then lost hope.

_I never died, Arthur._

He’d waited, and then he hadn’t.

Arthur’s legs shook and bent beneath him, landing him softly in the dirt along the narrow walkway of the street they’d reached. Letting out a shaky breath, Arthur tilted his head back to the sky.

It was dark, not just because of the night, but also from all the light shining up from the city laid out around him. It felt a bit like staring out at a blank slate, and a stray thought crossed Arthur’s mind, of a small house in the country, somewhere quiet, where he could forget everything he was and all he’d known. Some place he could see the stars. He hadn’t thought of it in years, this place of his imagination. But he wanted it now, a place he could be someone else. Someone without a centuries-old burden.

“I didn’t… I never meant to stop looking. I just…” Merlin’s voice interrupted his thoughts. It was stronger now, as though he was no longer restricted after disclosing the truth of his existence. “I never thought it would take quite this long. And I didn’t think you’d be reborn, or grow up again, with a life of your own.”

“Thought I’d come out of that lake still in my armor, did you?” he asked, eyes flashing angrily over to him, matching the bitter tone creeping out of his throat. Arthur wished he didn't feel so… betrayed, but of everyone, he’d had never expected Merlin to be the one to lose faith in him. 

“Only for a few decades.”

He cringed and threw his gaze back to the ground.

It wasn’t fair. By all accounts, Merlin had done more than was ever expected of him. Had been subjected to so much more than anyone should have, and if anyone had the right to be angry about it, it was Merlin. 

Yet, there was no malice in his words. Instead, a bit buried by the hurt but still noticeable, there was a tiny sliver of amusement. Arthur could feel it calling to him, and he was taken aback by how Merlin still managed to find humor in this situation. 

“I wanted to show you Albion, the way it was meant to be. Gwen…she did it. Everything you talked about. Everything we were supposed to do. You’d have been proud of the queen she became.”

He nodded shallowly. Arthur had made his peace with the loss of his friends and loved ones years ago, but thinking of Gwen was still a little bittersweet.

“I wanted to show you everything.”

“So,” he coughed, took a breath, and started again. “So, what happened? When did you…”

“Stop waiting for you?”

It stung to hear him say it, but Merlin had obviously returned to himself. He’d never shied away from difficult conversations with Arthur before. He didn’t want him to start now. 

“I guess it happened the same way it happened with everything else. There were too many chances for you to come back, and too many times you didn’t. I just…” Merlin sighed. “There were times I thought I missed you entirely. That you’d come back, but I didn’t know, or never managed to find you. And after the last war… well, I had to stop thinking about it.”

Arthur looked up and found Merlin watching him. Face to face with him again like this, it felt odd—they were practically strangers, and yet, he felt at home with Merlin. Like he was meant to be beside him. Like they weren’t meant to be apart.

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t entirely certain if he was apologizing for leaving, or for taking so long to come back. Maybe both. Maybe something else altogether. 

Whatever it was, he knew the words were necessary. 

An apology was something this world had never thought to give Merlin, judging by the way his expression shifted. A small, wry smile began tugging at the corners of his lips, reaching, somehow, up to his eyes. Hazy, but bright, they told Arthur too much and not enough all at once. Showed him that the wounds Merlin held were somehow still felt fresh despite reaching clear back to their first lives—Merlin’s only life. The scars crossed over the years and across every side of him in a way that was not fair. 

And damn it all, he was still trying to smile. Trying to make something good out of centuries of solitude. Of knowing and not knowing. Of having and not having. Of living and dying and waiting. Always waiting.

It hurt to see him like this, but the truth was, Arthur wasn’t sure what else he’d been expecting. Merlin had already shattered his trust and left him to ruin once, ages ago in Camelot, answering to a wretched prophecy.

Arthur hadn’t really understood it, then. He’d been too close to it—burdened by responsibility and pained by betrayal at seemingly every turn. But here and now, centuries later at the end of another war, one small aspect of their destiny finally clicked: Merlin would always break his heart.

It was either too late in the night or too early in the morning for as much activity as there was in the Pevensie home. For months the house had been rather quiet. With only Susan to occupy its walls, there hadn’t been any reason for much of anything in excess, certainly not yelling. 

Yet from the moment she arrived home, Susan was caught up in what proved to be the worst shouting match the house had seen in years. 

Despite the time that had passed, Susan knew that the others would step away as they usually did: Peter first, and then Lucy. The house seemed to shake, even with two fewer participants, but neither the oldest or the youngest left the room. 

She almost laughed at how they seemed to cling to old habits. Even when against each other, they remained together.

“How far are you willing to go, Susan?” Edmund asked, the fight finally fading from his tone. “How much of yourself are you willing to shove away and forget?”

It took everything she had not to flinch, because there was so much they didn’t know. So much they refused to see. 

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” she clarified. “I remember it all.”

“Do you? Because it sure doesn’t look like it. What happened?” 

“It’s like you’ve changed,” Lucy piped in, having found some sort of courage to re-enter the fight. Susan wished she hadn’t.

“Of course I’ve changed!” 

The entire room fell silent at the snap of her voice, echoing through the room as if from another time and place altogether. Hardly one to raise her voice, Susan had forgotten the way this tone, harsh and cold, scratched at her throat.

She felt a bit guilty. It wasn’t Lucy she was upset with, really. She wasn’t mad at any of them so much as she was disappointed 

Susan sat, letting some of her tension bleed out into her seat before she looked up at her siblings again.“I know you’re all holding onto what we left there, but in case you can’t see it, we have something _here._ What kind of life is it to wait for something that might never happen? And even if it does, could you go back to a world where everyone you knew will be gone, where you’ll be nothing but a character in a story?”

“We’ve done it before,” Peter answered feebly. They all knew exactly how that had gone. 

“Yes, but after everything that happened the last time, do you really expect to survive it again? What sort of life do you expect to cobble together in a place we don’t belong anymore?” She felt fragile, brittle, and ready to crumble, but Susan deliberately found their eyes, each of them in turn, tucking her tears haphazardly behind her anger and frustration. 

Susan wanted an answer—needed one—and they were the only ones who could provide one. The only ones that could prove, somehow, that they could endure that kind of loss and pain again. That they were strong enough to bear the weight of existing in a world where they weren’t needed anymore.

But none of them did. 

Not Peter, who’d suffered the worst of it, before. Not Lucy, whose hope was large enough to wash out the pain. And not Edmund, who’d been the one to pick up all the pieces of their shattered lives in either world.

“We had so much, but we aren’t there anymore. And I couldn’t keep turning from one life to the other,” Susan sighed. Somehow, it wasn’t as much of a relief to explain this as she had thought it would be. She wondered if anything would ever turn out the way she hoped.

“Did you have to turn away from everything?” Lucy asked, voice barely audible even in the silence of the room. “From us?”

Watching her sister’s expectant eyes, it was hard for Susan to ignore the feeling in her gut. Old and familiar, it was the same one Lucy always elicited, pulling and nudging Susan back to the same sister who’d bent to her youngest sibling’s will. But Susan’s habit of steeling herself to such feelings was closer. More immediate than the other was comfortable, and her spine stiffened against the draw of falling into the role her sister expected. 

“I did what I had to,” she confessed. She couldn’t concede this point, even now. She had always been expected to stay strong, for her siblings, for Narnia. But her strength had been left there, out of reach, and all she wanted now was to have something left for herself?

What little she had was not enough. 

When Lucy’s face broke, Susan turned away. She refused to watch. Refused to see the light disappear behind the tears in her sister’s eyes. Refused to see her turn into Peter’s chest. 

Before long, the oldest and the youngest of them left, leaving just Edmund in the room with her. It was fitting. This had all come to a head between them, hadn’t it?

“Did you find it, at least, a life worth living?” he asked, quietly, without looking up, and for a second, she thought to give him the lie that sat at the tip of her tongue. She wanted desperately to tell him she had, that she was doing well. But there was a silent plea in his question—there always was with Edmund—and it stuck with her. 

Truth was, Susan could never lie to Edmund. He saw too much of her. Saw too much of everything. His gaze was one that could level her. Knock her back or raise her up; it did too much. But it was never his eyes Susan had to watch. It was his hands that held the truth, and she could see them rolled up tight, desperate for some part of her to hold. 

She turned aside, not wanting to see the way he would hold onto himself when it became obvious he wouldn’t be able to reach what little of herself there was left to save. 

“The start of one, perhaps,” she answered carefully. “Malcolm asked me to go back to America with him when he’s done here, and I plan to go, to find out for certain.” 

Susan paused to consider the risks of her next thought, and then pressed forward. 

“He’s a good man, really. I know he…” she trailed off, knowing how it sounded to defend a man who very clearly had acted like a child, punching Edmund the way he had (not that Edmund hadn’t deserved it or acted much better). “Well, I’m happy with him.”

When she looked up again, Edmund was watching her. His eyes, always dark, were muted but knowing, and for the time he held her gaze, the guilt of her half-truth threatened to crawl back up her throat, burst through her lips, and assault him again in some desperate measure of defense. There was doubt dancing on her skin and in her breath and in her eyes, and she knew he could see it all. 

But Edmund only nodded, slowly—more a defeated drop of the chin, and a heavy, careful lift than any true acceptance. It was the kind of gesture he made when he gave in. When he knew there was nothing more he could say or do to change the circumstances laid out in front of him. The kind of gesture he gave when he recognized he was losing.

It wasn’t an expression Edmund had often, and Susan hated to be on the receiving end of it. To be the thing he lost.

Still, she held her breath, even after he moved toward the door, and struggled against every urge to call him back. 

When he paused, just inside the door jam, she thought maybe he’d heard her. As her brother, the one who knew her best, her once partner, co-ruler, and dearest friend, if anyone could hear her silence, it was Edmund.

But he didn’t turn, and the pause was just that. Not a full stop, but a hiccup. A half thought, maybe, but not one meant for her ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur and merlin have reunited at long last! but if you thought that meant the trouble was over, you're sorely mistaken. things smooth out for the two of them eventually. there's just... some other things to get through, first.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated  
> i'm also around on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> see you next monday!


	12. FINCHLEY. LATE MAY 1945

“How do you know them?”

“Who?” 

“The Pevensies.”

Merlin paused in dusting off his pants—though it was a bit of a waste, considering his hands now had dirt caked into the creases across his palm. He’d forgotten how their lives had managed to cross paths tonight. “Erm. It’s a bit of a long story.”

“Tell me the short version then.”

A laugh burst through him in a huff. Was there a short version? 

“Merlin?”

He looked up and recognized the inquisition on Arthur’s face for what it was. A cautious venture to return to what they might once have been. Not just a king and his servant, not a knight and a sorcerer, but friends. Two men who cared too little about themselves and too much about the other for Arthur to miss the kind of concern Merlin was sure to have written all over his face.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.”

He could tell Arthur was doing his best not to pry. To trust the tentative ties of their reunited friendship. A part of Merlin wasn’t sure he could answer in kind. Even in the short amount of time they had spent together tonight, hardly talking, there had been moments when he felt as though too much time had passed and too many things had changed. And still other times when it felt as natural as breathing to give in, to take the hand Arthur was offering. 

It was too much to sort through.

“I first met Lucy a few years ago, at the hospital in Finchley, and again earlier this year, in Germany.”

“Germany?”

“She’s a nurse,” he answered shortly, though she was so much more than that. 

Merlin would tell Arthur, eventually. Tell him everything that was his to tell, but Lucy and Edmund… The Pevensies’ story was their own. And, for the moment, Merlin wanted to keep the knowledge of it to himself, to keep something for himself just a little while longer. 

“And Edmund? He, erm… seemed a bit… protective.” 

“That’s just how he is. Both of them. They’d do anything for each other.”

“No, I mean…” 

He heard Arthur pause—as if needing the time to formulate his words—and Merlin cut a look across to him, sharp, abrupt. Whether Arthur understood or simply didn’t want to disrupt the fragile balance of whatever they were, he did as Merlin wanted, stuttering over his words until he could properly adjust whatever he meant to say.

“Well, I suppose I’m not too surprised. Peter’s like that, as well.”

They fell into silence until they made it back to the pavilion, climbing the steps together until they got to the top. 

“Wait.”

Arthur turned back, but Merlin was more concerned with what he felt beyond the threshold of the doors. Or rather what he didn’t. 

“They’re not here.”

“What do you mean? How do you…”

“They’ve left,” he said, a bit more forcefully than he’d meant to. “I just know.”

He’d know Edmund and Lucy anywhere, in any place, no matter how many people there were or weren’t. He’d grown too used to their energies to lose sense of them entirely, the way he had Arthur’s—though some memory of destiny and fate tried to tell him there were other factors at play when it came to the man standing beside him.

“Alright. Well, if they’re not here, there’s no use in staying. Come on.”

“What?” he asked, whipping around to find Arthur already halfway down the steps. “Where are you going?”

“Finchley, come on!”

It was quiet in the house by the time Edmund finally managed to collect his thoughts. Night had settled, but he had yet to fully grasp Susan’s confession. Her challenge. 

It bothered him that she had a point, though he shouldn’t have been so surprised about it. The path she’d taken wasn’t one he would have chosen for himself, but it was fitting for Susan—logical and practical. Edmund had always expected her to make something out of the hurt, but somehow, she still managed to surprise him. It was astounding, what he had missed by trusting her to her own devices and giving her space. What he’d missed, in his twisted and spiteful turn away. 

Had it been worth it? He didn’t know yet.

Edmund moved down the upstairs hallway in silence, in search of Peter. After an hour spent buried by his own thoughts, climbing in and out of his own feelings, he needed outside perspective. Peter’s in particular.

Their brother had been rather quiet earlier, and Edmund knew he would have an entirely different opinion than either he or Lucy did. It was one of the things Edmund trusted in his brother most, the way they were so different in how they approached… everything. They were opposites at times—one with all the shining light of the sun, the other wrapped in shadow and darkness. They caught what the other couldn’t and reflected back what they saw to be the truth.

Edmund needed a bit of that now. A truth he’d missed.

He thought, briefly, to knock when he reached Peter’s door. But it was cracked open the way it often settled after the latch failed to catch and Lucy’s voice filtered through, too bright for the concerns he wanted to bring into the room. Edmund stopped.

“So, you two know each other then? That’s great!”

Clearly, Peter and Lucy weren’t alone.

“Yes, well… It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Edmund frowned at the voice—Merlin’s—and wondered how he’d missed his arrival. No. Lucy has said two. _Their_ arrival. 

Standing at the door, Edmund considered the rules against eavesdropping in this house—rules he’d been adamant about in their younger years—and pondered the lines he was crossing by choosing to linger. Peering in through the crack, he froze, able to see nothing but a sliver of Merlin’s face. The rest was blocked by Arthur.

He wasn’t sure what to make of either of them at the moment. Merlin, for the way he’d all but disappeared earlier—no where near the pavillion by the time they had left the building—and Arthur for both going after him then and reappearing now, Merlin at his side.

Edmund wasn’t a jealous man. But what was his was his, and if nothing else, Merlin was… Was Merlin his?

“What is it?” Peter asked, clearly exhausted.

“It’s…difficult to explain.” 

Merlin’s voice shook, enough that Arthur finished the sentiment. “We’re not sure you’ll believe us.” 

“We won’t know until you try,” came Susan's voice, matter-of-fact.

Edmund expected a myriad of possible admissions. Arthur’s feelings for Susan were near the top of the list, but that didn’t involve Merlin at all, and whatever it was, was about the both of them, together. 

He kept his focus on Merlin’s expression, imagining the rest of it behind Arthur’s profile. Edmund had a knack for it, filling out a picture when he only had a partial clue or point of reference. But when Arthur turned, Merlin’s expression shifted.

It was slight—a tilt of his head and a setting of his jaw—but Edmund understood. He knew that whatever it was they had come to explain, was Merlin’s to say.

This was his secret.

Merlin stood a bit taller and straightened out his shoulders. Not just a confession then, but a truth so hidden, it took more than simple courage to expel.

“Arthur and I…” he started, before glancing in Arthur’s direction. In Edmund’s. “We have a history.”

This much, Edmund had gathered. He wasn’t blind, after all.

“He is King Arthur. King of Camelot from the legends and stories, whatever you believe them to be.”

For a minute, Edmund wanted to laugh. There were too many contradicting legends about Arthur and his knights for any one of them to be properly accurate. To claim they were true, to claim to _be_ the man in question… it was absurd. But Merlin had such a serious tone and expression that Edmund could barely breathe. And then, of course, Edmund remembered. 

If he and his siblings could be kings and queens themselves, there was nothing to say Arthur couldn’t be the king of legend, once dead and destined to return again.

“So, your stories. They were true.” Lucy’s voice was quiet, but Edmund wouldn’t put it past a deaf man to hear her. He wished, for a second, he could see her face. To see if he felt anything like she did. 

Then he took it back. 

He didn't want her to feel what he did. Because even before Merlin answered, Edmund knew what he would say and what it meant. What it would do. And at that point, some cowardly part of him whispered in the back of his mind to turn and leave. That if he simply didn’t hear Merlin say it, it couldn’t be true. But Edmund was too caught up in the way the man’s face contorted with… what was it, guilt or shame? Did Merlin know how far his words would reach? 

“Yes. They were.”

“And you…You’re Merlin, the wizard?”

“Wizard, warlock, sorcerer, magician, it’s all more or less the same,” he confirmed. “I am Merlin, and Arthur is my king.”

Edmund’s hand slipped against the door frame—when had he gripped it?—the sweat of his palm slick against the wood, and he stepped back at the noise. Wobbly on his legs, with his knees threatening to give out, he pushed himself further back, away from the door, the room, and was halfway down the hall before he remembered to breathe.

He had understood Arthur was someone important to Merlin, someone he hadn’t expected to see again. Of that much, Edmund had been certain. Merlin had disappeared from the pavillion earlier with the same look on his face as when the two of them had met at Lucy’s flat. All Edmund had needed was a second look at Arthur to conclude: yes, of course there was history. 

Edmund wasn’t so naive as to believe he could be Merlin’s first or only. The man had very clearly had experience of his own, so Edmund had known there were others. But he hadn’t cared about that. He was secure enough in his own feelings to ignore whatever there was between Arthur and Merlin. What they had been was outside of anything to do with Edmund. Arthur was from before him. Arthur was a part of Merlin’s past.

But they didn’t just have a history. They _were_ history. 

And knowing it, now, after these past months, changed everything.

Every inch of him was tense as he escaped back to his room, running through all the signs he’d dismissed. 

It went clear back to all the stories Merlin had told, beginning with that first one, the first night at Lucy’s flat. He’d told it so clearly, so vividly, that Edmund had been inclined to feel a bit like Merlin had been there himself. He’d considered it then, the possibility that the Merlin in the room and the Merlin of his story were one and the same. But it was such an impossible thing to believe, that Edmund had brushed it off entirely. Blamed his imaginings on his love of those legends in general, no matter their credibility.

Now, Edmund cursed under his breath as he shut the door to his room, falling heavily against it. He should have known better than to brush off the impossible. He himself was a contradiction. The impossible made possible by a cruel twist of magic. He was a king and a school student, a spymaster and a soldier, a man and a boy. Of this world and another. A legend of the past and a simple young man of the present.

Impossible? Nothing in his life was impossible.

But even without all that, he should have known. If not by his own reasonings then certainly from Merlin himself, long before now because they were… They were something. Weren’t they? 

Edmund balled his hands into fists, pressing the base of his palms against his forehead, and thought back to all the time he’d spent with Merlin. There hadn’t been much between them in France. No stories, no details. But in Oxford….

Endless weeks of time spread out before his mind’s eye. The hours he’d wasted thinking of him, talking with him, tasting him and drinking him in during the quiet hours of the night.

It wasn’t just the way Edmund had all but consumed Merlin, either, but how much of himself he’d opened up for man to take in return. Stories Edmund had shared, whispered into the dark, so they could pass from the shadows where he kept them, to Merlin, who he hoped would keep them just as safe. Stories and secrets without which Edmund felt bare. Stripped down to nothing but the truth of who he was, for Merlin.

And for what? For Merlin? A liar? A lie, in and of himself.

He should have left it as it was in France. The heat, the passion, the anonymity. Should never have shared anything more than that one night. Because now Merlin knew things about him that even Lucy didn’t. Things he’d never admit to Peter, no matter how close they were. Things Susan might have glimpsed once but had clearly locked away in all her hurt.

How much of himself had he given away? How much power had he given Merlin in knowing who he was? All because of that strange but familiar feeling of Narnia that Merlin gave him. The one Edmund had never quite been able to put his finger on.

Alone now, the harsh truth fell gently into his lap—like a feather floating down from some high up place. It reminded him that even Icarus fell by his own mistakes, and Edmund laughed. Strangled and smothered by his disgust, the sound crawled out of his throat and hung in the air around him, clouding his thoughts. The anger he felt couldn’t be directed at anyone but himself. 

Of course it had come to this. 

Of course he’d fallen so far and slipped where he shouldn’t have. Because it wasn’t Narnia that Merlin reminded him of. It was magic, and this was what magic did to him.

Magic made a fool of him.

Magic toyed with his emotions.

Magic eased him into believing he could have something good.

Magic had made him betray those he loved, once. It was only fitting that it was responsible for such an equally devastating betrayal against him. 

He wanted to scream. He wanted, frustratingly, to cry. 

Edmund bit the edge of his lip, hard enough to taste blood.

It was the metallic taste that stopped him short. Brought him back, haltingly, to his senses and wipe roughly at the tears brimming in his eyes. At least this time, there was no need for such rigorous measures of atonement. At least this time, the deception was not his own. Edmund had already devoted one life, his entire kingship, to making amends for the hurt he had caused by his own childish selfishness, but this…

This was not a wrong he had to fix. 

This was not his fault.

Edmund lifted his head and slowed his breathing, measuring the air he took in and let out between the slowing beats of his heart. 

It was the timing that was the most offensive aspect of the chaos he was sorting through. First Susan, then Merlin. 

He scoffed. At least he wasn’t mad at Susan anymore. 

If anything, he was feeling a bit guilty. For her, but also for himself. Edmund had forgotten his own rules for battle whilst engaged in the war he’d built up in his head. 

He’d forgotten what he was fighting for. Hadn’t realized they weren’t even fighting each other, but themselves. Neither one with a proper plan. He’d held onto the past, and it came around from the front to bite him harder than he could have anticipated; she’d focused on the future, and it was still full of demons from the dark. 

They needed a different game. Their bitter war had been a waste. Pointless. Neither of them had won. In fact, at the end, Susan hadn’t tipped her king but rather flipped the board entirely. It wasn’t an honorable loss, but it meant she survived. In that, at least, Susan had had a purpose, reminding Edmund that he’d always found something worthwhile in her strategies before.

Horrid as the thought was, there was always the option to retreat. 

America wouldn’t work for him, of course. There was no opportunity for him there the way there was for Susan. But Edmund wasn’t entirely without options. 

He took a few breaths and settled at his desk. Ignoring his shaking fingers, Edmund carefully pulled a few sheets of paper from the top drawer and committed his plans to paper.

One was short and direct, his writing quick. The other was longer, with cleaner, more exact script. He wanted only to write exactly what he meant and nothing else, so it came in pieces, slowly as he thought through his words. 

When he finished, the darkest part of the night had fallen outside, teasing the coming dawn. The house too, had grown silent, just as he’d hoped.

Edmund didn’t bother with envelopes, creasing the letters cleanly before moving quickly through the house to place both where he knew they would be found at exactly the time they were meant to be found. Then, he headed into the fading shadows of the night, confident they would hold everything he needed.

“Peter!”

Lucy’s voice cut through the kitchen and the rest of the house, the way the light of day was already streaming in through the windows, startling Merlin in the living room. Heavy footfalls tumbled down the stairs of the Pevensie home by the time he was up and through the door to the kitchen, but it was the look on Lucy’s face that set him on edge.

“Lucy?” 

“He left.” 

She held out a piece of paper, but he was slow in reaching for it. Lucy had that heavy sort of anger brewing in her eyes, the kind he liked to think of as a dark cloud, soaked and ready to burst. It was the kind of anger that came with teary eyes and a shaky voice, like there was too much to hold in and no way to let it go. It was not a look he had seen on Lucy before.

“Lu?” Peter blew through the door, without a trace of exhaustion on him, scanning the room before his heavy gaze settled on his sister.

Arthur, who seemed to have finally untangled himself from the blankets he had rolled off the sofa with, slunk in behind him, alert, but clearly a step behind the others in emerging from sleep.

“Change of plans. I have my orders. Will write soon. - Ed.” Merlin read off the slip of paper.

“He didn’t even say goodbye!”

Peter sighed, letting his shoulders drop, and crossed the room to her. “Things are different here, Lu. It’s harder… He has his orders, and we can’t always tell when they’ll come or what they’ll ask us to do.”

“This wasn’t the damn SIS, Peter. He said he had the rest of the summer with us, and the entire fall term before he was even supposed to check back in with them. Edmund just…” The fight fell out of her and she slumped down into a chair. “He just left.”

Merlin shifted uncomfortably to let Arthur pass behind him, to the cabinets above the kitchen counter to help Peter, who was lighting the stove. The tension among them all was palpable and he felt, suddenly, that he wasn’t meant to be there. Wasn’t meant to be anywhere near these people at all. Not when all he managed to do was cause them pain.

Edmund’s departure was his fault. After the night before, he didn’t see how it could be anyone else’s.

There had been a plan, of course. A hasty one of Arthur’s making, from the short ride from London back to the Pevensie house. But it hadn’t involved Edmund until later. 

Arthur had wanted to tell Peter immediately, and Merlin could hardly blame him. Arthur wasn’t one for secrets and had held his own for long enough. It was only natural that he should explain the truth to his friend, particularly now that he had Merlin to explain it with him. And it would have been fine, if Peter was the only one they told. But Susan and Lucy had been there too, each of them tense and exhausted, all at once—distraught over something Merlin and Arthur had clearly missed. They hadn't called Edmund, claiming he needed space enough to settle his nerves. Merlin and Arthur had acquiesced, but it had hardly mattered in the end.

Merlin had felt him there in the hallway—long before he heard the sound of someone at the door—and wished he could have had the strength to make Edmund understand that he’d never meant to lie to him, never meant to harm anyone by hiding the truth. To reassure him that magic hadn’t played a part in any of their interactions. That even if he had had the strength or the opportunity, Merlin would never have used magic like that against Edmund. Not when he knew what magic meant to him. 

Truth was, Arthur simply had it easier of the two of them. Peter was surprised, of course, but he had a kingship of his own that came spilling out. And amidst their secrets, two of a kind, their trust was only made stronger.

Merlin, on the other hand, had kept his secrets even after Lucy and Edmund had shared theirs, and where Lucy had granted him her forgiveness before turning in the night before, it was Edmund’s response he still wanted. Was this disappearance it? And if it was, did he even have the right to be upset by it?

A hand on his shoulder pulled Merlin from his thoughts, and Peter motioned quietly for him to follow him back out into the living room.

“I was hoping for a word.”

He looked up sharply, but curbed his retort at the look on Peter’s face. “What about?”

“My brother, and whatever guilt you’re feeling.”

Merlin frowned, but should have known better than to think someone of the Pevensie name wouldn’t have that all-knowing kind of perception.

They were too much. The whole lot of them.

“Edmund’s a man of his own volition. He doesn’t do anything without thinking it through, without knowing exactly how his actions will or won’t affect every other piece in play. Whatever he heard last night, he took and did with it what he would have, whether you told him to his face or through a messenger bird from across the ocean.” Peter smiled, and Merlin had to look away. It was a worn out sort of smile, with a touch of hope tucked into the ends. The kind Merlin didn’t deserve.

“I know my brother. Almost as well as he knows me, and I know what he looks like when he… cares about someone.”

Peter set a hand on his shoulder, and instinct had Merlin bring his gaze back up. He looked as different from Edmund as Lucy did from Susan. In everything from hair color to eye color and general demeanor. One dark, the other light. But the look Peter had in his eyes now reminded Merlin of Edmund anyway. Unflinching. Reassuring. Serious.

“He’d kill me for saying it, but…” Peter paused, and Merlin swallowed. “Edmund doesn’t trust quite so easily, and it takes him longer than most to forgive. Others, certainly, but mostly himself. And when it comes to someone he cares about… someone he really cares about, he gets scared.”

Merlin wasn’t quite sure was breathing. 

“He’ll come back. When he does, do me a favor?” Peter’s eyes met his, holding for half a second—they had that same depth and strength to them that Lucy’s did before she made one of her stern declarations. “If you’re serious about him, don’t let him push you away.”

Peter stood after a silent moment, nodding awkwardly before he retreated back to the kitchen where Merlin could hear Arthur’s and Lucy’s voices—not quite what they were saying. 

He dropped to the sofa, unsure that he even wanted to know. Didn’t think he could focus enough to listen. There were too many thoughts in his mind, and all of them were of Edmund.

Merlin had known, weeks ago, that he was in danger of loving Edmund. The limited length of their time together hadn’t mattered to him. Some part of him had been content to determine the value of time for himself. Days, weeks, months, it wouldn’t have mattered what he had with Edmund because no matter what, it wouldn’t have been enough.

He knew now, of course, that he hadn’t just been at risk of loving Edmund, but that he’d fallen ages ago. It might even have been that night in France, before Merlin had even known his name. It would have been a blind love, certainly, but Merlin had always been a man of feeling, and centuries of tempering that part of him had only backfired. 

To know his affections were likely returned, even if only confirmed by Peter and not Edmund himself, only made things worse. 

Merlin had operated on hope, these past several weeks; against his better judgement, Merlin had let himself _want_. And it was all for naught. He’d ruined it again—this time, worse than any other before.

He’d thought it was the pain of losing people that he should have prepared for. But that wasn’t the case with Edmund. With any of the Pevensies. With them, it was impossible not to hope for something good, to enjoy what good there was to begin with, and that was what hurt worse. It felt like a knife to the gut, his own hand wrapped around the handle.

Merlin had allowed himself the joy that came from working beside Lucy and spending time with Edmund. From the warmth in her laugh and the bright, dancing look in her eyes to the steady meter of Edmund’s pulse under his fingers and the careful contented smile he seemed to wear only in their company.

Merlin had allowed himself to forget everything that hurt, just as he’d set Arthur aside. He’d ignored the fact that in the great length of his life, the Pevensies were nothing but bumps. Slight detours. 

Especially Edmund. 

What Merlin had shared with him had felt like everything, and yet, it was nothing. And no matter Peter’s advice, no matter the optimism, Merlin couldn’t help but think he’d gotten everything wrong from the very moment he’d decided to give up on Arthur and his destiny—to give up the thing, the person Merlin knew he was meant for, in favor of something that had only ever been a dream before.

But Edmund had been something solid for him to lean on, even in the brief momentary nature of their knowing one another. And without him, Merlin finally felt his age, however many ruinous centuries it was. Without him, Merlin felt weightless and untethered with no idea where to go but back. Anything to take back what he’d lost. To feel closer to what he used to be all those years ago: a man who would stop at nothing to protect those he loved. To see his king return, as he was meant to be.

And Arthur _had_ returned. But all Merlin could think of was Edmund—another king, but certainly not his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen, no one ever said edmund always made the right decisions. he's wildly intelligent, absolutely. but uh, sometimes he's just dumb. and merlin's not doing so hot either, tbh. 
> 
> this is the point in the fic where things are, collectively, the rockiest for everyone. but they resolve all their concerns by the end, one by one—they just need to write a few letters, have a fire fight in the jungle, and work a little of their own magic before we get there.
> 
> comment, leave kudos, or come find me on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> 


	13. TRAIN/OXFORD. EARLY AUGUST 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 9:13PM, Aug 10: not sure what happened but the ending didn’t get posted correctly; it’s added now though, sorry!
> 
> those of you who've read my [once+always](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505669) series will see a familiar name in this chapter :) more notes at the end!

Arthur watched the countryside pass through the window. It was still a bit startling, some days, to remember that in another lifetime, the hills might have been fraught with bandits or druids or enemy ranks. Just as they might have been clear and open, free of difficulty. He had not gone so far north in his time as king to know for sure, but he hoped for the latter.

“You alright?”

He nodded, able to see Peter’s face in the reflection. “Just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned away from the window against the seat back uncomfortably. They were about halfway to Oxford, and the stiffness in the cushions was doing absolutely nothing for him. Across from him, Peter seemed unaffected. Arthur suspected he had more experience with train travel.

“Worried?”

He quirked a brow in response, but Peter only shrugged.

“You have the same look on your face that Ed would get when something was bothering him.”

Arthur considered him for a minute. “Is it anything like the look on your face now?”

Peter’s grim expression broke with a hint of levity, then reformed again. “I’m fine. Just…”

“Thinking?” he returned lightly. 

Peter rewarded him with a short chuckle—more than he had expected—but it was clear they both were doing so much more than just thinking. 

Arthur didn’t blame him. 

They hadn’t talked about Edmund, so Arthur guessed it was him that Peter was concerned about, but it truly was, only a guess. He hadn’t been able to get a proper read of Edmund, and no one had mentioned him since they had discovered he’d left that morning so it was even harder to picture their relationship. His siblings had treated his departure almost as though it was expected, and Merlin… well, it had been difficult to get him to say anything at all in the time before he and Lucy left to return to Oxford. All in all, Arthur was at a loss.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Arthur offered, remembering the quiet tension that had settled over them in the wake of everything. There had been too many discussions to be had and none likely to be had; no one had the energy, not even Lucy, who Arthur had discovered was the liveliest of the Pevensies.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Peter accepted. “Ed’s… resilient.”

“Color me surprised,” he replied. “So then what, Susan?”

Things were hardly better after Merlin and Lucy left. Their absence left Peter, Arthur, and Susan to skirt around each other in the house, covering the tension with awkward pleasantries until Susan left, herself. 

“A bit, I suppose, but no. Susan… she always comes around. Might take a bit longer, this time though.”

“Come around?” he asked. “You don’t like him then? Malcolm?”

Peter looked up at him, curious, and for a moment, Arthur wondered if they would ever have the discussion he was certain neither of them particularly wanted to have. Or if they would just dance around it until it no longer mattered. 

Personally, he was hoping for the latter. 

“I’m sure he’s perfectly fine, but no. I’m not fond of him,” Peter sighed. “Su says she’s happy, though, and I’m not going to pick a fight with her about it. Not about this. I’m not the one she listens to, anyways.”

“Not even as High King?” Arthur joked, wanting to steer things away from the topic of Susan.

Having never been adept at expressing his feelings, Arthur had maintained as polite a disposition as possible whenever they had crossed paths in the past weeks, whether in town or around the house, but ultimately kept to himself. In light of the tension between Susan and her siblings, Arthur hadn’t felt a need to complicate matters for anyone, no matter what he might have felt. Besides that, a handful of letters and a moment’s dance weren’t worth quite what they might have been in older ages, and he’d been foolish to think they might be simply because he was who he was, nevermind who _she_ was and who she wanted _not_ to be.

Peter’s smile was a bit weary, but true. “Sometimes, but not often. And certainly not where there were suitors involved.”

“No? You must have had some say though.”

“Su was always a good judge of character, even before we went to Narnia. I was perfectly happy to let Edmund run any potential suitors through the ringer himself.”

“Edmund?”

Smiling fondly now, Peter nodded. “You think I’m quick, Ed’s something else altogether. He was always fielding challenges—issuing a few, himself, too. But he had a particular knack for getting just about all of Susan’s suitors to challenge him somehow.”

“Not the other way around?”

“He was too clever for that. Wanted to be sure Su couldn’t accuse him of intentionally squaring off with every man who so much as looked at her. Though, of course, he _was,_ in his own sneaky little way. But as far as the court was concerned, Ed was always defending his own honor, not Su’s.”

Having no siblings of his own—beyond Morgana, who he wasn’t sure he’d even see again in this lifetime—Arthur didn’t know what else he should have expected of the Pevensies if not this protective nature. 

“I don’t think Susan minded so much, to tell you the truth. She’d have made him stop if she did. Lucy certainly did, when people started showing up for her hand. Made us both butt out, actually,” Peter chuckled. “She may have been the youngest, but if we listened to anyone most, it was Lucy.”

Arthur had spent no more than a handful of hours with the youngest Pevensie, but in that time, he had gotten a clear sense of her character and knew Peter wasn’t stretching the truth in any way. Lucy had more conviction in her day-to-day thoughts than most people had in a lifetime. Confident and smart, it was easy to see how dedicated and loyal she could be—to her family, to a people. She reminded him quite a bit of Gwen, in that way. Someone for whom love came easily. Someone for whom leading a kingdom was simple. 

“Did they ever marry? Did any of you?”

When Peter didn’t answer right away, Arthur looked up and found him turned toward the window with his hands folded into one another. He was running his thumb over the knuckle of his left forefinger in a movement Arthur knew well. He’d done the same, when he was younger and just grasping the truth of the life he led and left behind. He still did it, from time to time. 

Gently, he asked, “What was she like?”

“Maddening,” Peter answered softly. “Turned my entire world on its head, right from the start. I wasn’t even looking to marry. I fought my council on the matter. But Nadora…” Peter shook his head. “She had a way of making people stop and listen. She made me close my eyes for once, stop thinking, and just… trust what I felt. About her, about the kingdom, about myself.”

Hearing the echo of another life and another heart in Peter’s voice, Arthur thought of Gwen. She’d done the same for him, once upon a time. But the more he thought about it, Gwen hadn’t been the only one to push him in that manner.

He didn’t mention it though. Not when, upon looking up, he saw that Peter’s eyes had fallen shut, as though he were no longer in the train car with him anymore, but somewhere else. 

“Sometimes, I can’t really remember what she looked like,” Peter noted softly after a moment. “Not exactly, anyway. I can’t picture her smile or the shape of her nose right.”

Arthur felt a dull ache in his chest at the shakiness of Peter’s voice and attempted to gather up enough courage to stop him, to say he didn’t need to continue. Some memories hurt too much to remember, even when they were good ones. But the man continued without much more than a sobering breath, fortified by something Arthur didn’t know.

“Her eyes, though. I couldn’t forget them if I tried.” A wry smile slipped onto his face, tugging at the corners of his lips, and his eyes closed gently. “Some days they were so brilliantly blue you’d think they held the Eastern Sea itself. Typically though, they were a light grey, cloudy almost.

“And I always knew when she was angry with me,” he sighed softly. “Nadora wasn’t normally very warm, at least not often anyway. But when something truly upset her, her eyes would turn… this dark, icy sort of blue grey I could never really pinpoint. It changed everything about the way she looks. Beautiful still, of course but…” Peter trailed for a moment, as though he could finally see her face—the way he shouldn’t after all this time. “I hated that she could become this other person completely. So cold when she wasn’t that way at all.”

His composure finally slipped, then, but his misstep was quick, and he gave a rough laugh to cover it up as he turned to face Arthur properly. He didn’t look particularly amused, but there was something close to calm settling back into his face.

“She’d have liked you, I think. You’re a lot like her brothers.”

Arthur smiled, reminded of Elyan and the other knights. It hurt less to think of them, than it did to think of Gwen. And in a situation like this, where he could share the pain with someone who understood it, Arthur found the experience was worth something different.

It really was a unique position to be in. He was a king of legend, granted a second life; to have a friend in someone like Peter Pevensie, a king himself, was nothing short of a miracle. One of life’s small blessings.

For this life anyway. 

“You know…” Peter shifted back in his seat and caught Arthur’s eye. “If you need me, for whatever it is Merlin and you are supposed to do, I’d be happy to stand by your side.”

The Pevensies were a rare breed in this world. 

Because of Narnia, certainly, but also due to something beyond their other lives—something that rooted itself in the kind of people they were and the way in which they held themselves. An unnatural sort of strength that could not be physically measured. It helped Arthur to understand why Merlin felt the need to cling to them, because he found himself feeling much the same way, now that he knew the truth.

The Pevensies all held a certain kind of grace in the way they approached the tragedies of their lifetimes. Peter with a cool and level head, Susan with her head held high, Edmund with a decided clarity, and Lucy with a smile. They did it all after having suffered as much as they had, to have had—and then lost and lost again—a land and people and life they’d cherished. Arthur had a hard time imagining it himself, despite having experienced something quite similar. 

In some ways, Arthur knew so very little about them. In other ways, there was nothing more to know but that they were, as Peter had said, resilient. 

It came, he thought, from knowing the value of supporting one another. Regardless of the current strains in their relationships with one another, the Pevensies would always have something to bring them back together. If Peter wanted to extend that courtesy to him—even with the mystery of what his destiny and fate would bring—Arthur would be a fool to refuse. 

  
  


Peter and Arthur’s visit to Oxford had been both necessary and convenient. Necessary because despite the relative peace Merlin and Lucy had regained in past weeks, there had been a clear and obvious void that needed filling, and convenient because it fell just before Lucy’s birthday, and Merlin had been floundering in his endeavor to celebrate properly while still working his usual shift at the hospital.

With their help, Merlin had managed a cake and more than enough champagne for a long night of laughter and discussion—rather simple in some regard, but all in all, a perfectly lovely evening that rolled into the next morning in the form of surprisingly fluffy pancakes before Merlin and Lucy were off to work.

Unfortunately, they did not take their good mood with them. As with all pockets of cheer in Merlin’s life, this one reached its end too quickly, stopping short when Peter announced that he and Arthur were due to head out again. The Far East, this time.

The news hung heavily over both Merlin and Lucy through their shift at the hospital, clinging to them as they made their way home that evening. It had been a quiet day, and an even quieter walk home until Lucy, quite suddenly, asked, “Will you go with him?” 

Merlin had never been any good at farewells, so he answered Lucy as though he hadn’t already made up his mind. As though he didn’t already know this would be yet another goodbye. “Perhaps.”

She hummed in response, like she understood and expected nothing less. Yet, at the same time, it felt like a challenge. Like she wanted him to prove her wrong. To prove the whole world wrong.

For a second, Merlin thought he could. Lucy had that ability—a kind of zeal and faith in something that Merlin didn’t understand. It made him truly believe that anything was possible, even defying destiny.

Besides that, he wasn’t sure what good he would be to Arthur now. He rarely used his magic anymore, and when he did, it was for altering records and bending rules. He could fight and shoot a gun, of course, but Merlin wasn’t so sure he wanted to anymore. He had had enough of war. 

“I won’t blame you,” she added solemnly. “He needs you.”

Merlin nearly stumbled, caught off guard. He forgot, sometimes, that Lucy was older than she appeared. Wiser too. Enough, at least, to understand the things it had taken him centuries to grasp. It came from her compassion. From her tendency to care too much where others rarely bothered. That sort of love opened a person’s eyes wider than most other things, made them privy to things most would miss, Merlin included.

“He’s been fine so far,” he answered, more for the sake of disagreeing than because he believed it. Arthur _had_ been fine up till now, but it wasn’t like he could change things if he hadn’t.

“Even so, there’s no telling what’ll happen now that you’ve found each other again. Besides, you need him, too.”

Merlin scowled, knowing she was right. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He knew Arthur needed him and that he was supposed to be by his side. It didn’t help that Lucy insisted upon it, because he knew, just as well as she did, that it wasn’t what she wanted. 

No matter the rough waters their friendship was emerging from, Merlin knew the kind of heart Lucy had, and he knew it hurt her more than she wanted to admit that Edmund had left as he had. For him to leave as well wasn’t fair, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, and she knew it. 

Truth was, Lucy was too good for him, had always been. And he didn’t know how to make up the difference.

Finally, they turned down their street. He could see the light on in their flat where Arthur and Peter would be waiting up for them. Despite the late hour, they’d agreed to have supper waiting for them. It was meant to be a celebration of sorts before they were set to leave the next morning, but Merlin wasn’t sure if any of them were in the mood to celebrate. He certainly wasn’t, too caught up worrying over the girl he walked with.

Lucy had just opened the door when finally, Merlin found the courage to ask, “Will you be alright, after?”

She froze in the threshold, caught between what she wanted and what he already knew she would not allow for herself. They were too alike for him not to know.

“Don’t worry about me, Merlin,” she said after a moment, flashing him a quick smile as she stepped through the doorway. It was more fragile than any other Merlin had ever seen her wear. “We’ll both be right where we’re needed most.”

He lingered on the front steps and stared after her, wishing there was something more he could do. But Merlin could not make her any more promises, not now. Not when their trust in one another was still so fragile. But he did silently hope with all the pieces left of his shattered existence that she would stay strong.

Loneliness had broken him over the years, but never so much as when it took him by surprise. It was the last thing he wanted for Lucy, even if he was the one to cause it.

The next morning was quiet. Quieter still after the boys left. It was not a new feeling to be left behind. But it was unpleasant, all the same. Unfamiliar after so many years. It left Lucy much like a drone, marching through her tasks at the hospital without her usual excitement.

Her only saving grace through the rest of the week was that the work hadn’t slowed, at least not terribly. The war might have been over in Europe, but there were still soldiers farther out who were slowly making their way back, and injuries did not vanish here, the way they might have in Narnia. Though, if she had her cordial, Lucy might have taken a drop of it for herself, even if she was certain it did not work for the kind of pain she felt.

Truthfully, Lucy had not remembered the sting of loneliness to be so harsh. And yet it was, reducing her to silent evenings after work, curled up in the blanket Peter had used when he and Arthur visited. Wrapped in it now, a few weeks after their departure, so far into the night it may as well be morning once more, Lucy contemplated her loneliness.

It had been different when she’d gone with the other ATA girls. She had had so much adrenaline to keep her company, the same kind that filled her when she marched off to battle in Narnia. And they were moving so constantly, following the trail of bloody battlefields and sick bays with unnatural haste, that Lucy had hardly had time to let that pool of energy wane into rumination. Her spirits hadn’t even begun to fade until she started at the camps, finally petering out when they reached the Bergen-Belsen camp. Everything had been different then, but she’d also had Merlin with her. And had him since, until now.

Despite knowing that the Merlin she’d met at the hospital in Finchley a few years back was not entirely the same Merlin as she’d met afield, Lucy still felt she had known the man first. Looking back, she could see that there were inklings of the optimistic, hopeful, and animated field medic in the aged and worn doctor from Finchley. He was the same, much like Lucy was still the same now as she had been in Narnia, in all the ways that truly mattered.

Knowing the full extent of their friendship, from Finchley to Oxford, Lucy had confidence in having known Merlin first. Before the rest of them—even Arthur, in his second life. But with all the boys gone and the flat to herself each night, it was little solace to have known him first. Being the first meant so little when it was clear that Merlin was not the same to her as he was to either Edmund or Arthur. 

It wasn’t that she wanted him to be. Lucy was not in love with Merlin the way Edmund was, nor did she love him the way Arthur did. But she did care for him, still felt lucky to have him in her life—enough to know she was afraid of losing him—the first person in all her lives who truly seemed to understand the burden she felt.

Lucy had always been a light. Peter had told her so often during their years in Narnia and even after they’d come back. Her instructors at school said much the same, claiming a particular spirit or energy about her that they just couldn’t pin down but appreciated nonetheless. 

At the time, she had welcomed the praise. She loved knowing that she had that kind of brightening effect on people. It was the catalyst for her becoming a nurse, and it made her want to be a doctor even, some day.

But it was exhausting to burn so constantly. To never quite have the chance to step back, to open up and just breathe. Precious few in her life had ever understood that. She felt Edmund did, sometimes, but his constant expulsion of light was something different from hers. His was more often cast over himself instead of over others. As much as he might have understood, it wouldn’t have been enough. 

Then she met Merlin. First in Finchley and then in Germany. In both places, he rarely failed to smile in the presence of others or present some measure of positive determination. It was only when he thought no one else was looking that the curve of his lips dropped. In moments like that, there was such a profound exhaustion in his eyes that Lucy had felt a bit ashamed to be so glad about—to recognize what lay behind it. She was too happy to have finally found someone who understood what it meant to have a tired soul.

So much had changed since then.

Now, Arthur had taken him away, leaving her alone. Arthur and Peter both. They’d come into her flat with a cake and champagne and happiness, and as much as she had been grateful for it then, she could not help but be angry with the outcome. 

Even without turning on the light in the main room, even without moving from her curled up position wrapped in Peter’s blanket, Lucy could see it.

Above the handful of photos and drawings she and Merlin had put up on the walls for themselves, party decorations still hung—high enough up that Lucy could not reach them without standing atop furniture she hadn’t the energy to even lean against. It was stifling, to see the remnants of their celebration, to see that all they could leave for her were paper clippings and drooping balloons when she’d only wanted one of them to stay. Any of them. Even Arthur would have sufficed, and she hardly knew him.

Instead, they had all gone. And it wasn’t fair. But even Edmund—the fair, the just—was gone. 

The thought made her angry all over again. Prompting her, finally, from her nest of woe in a fury. She stumbled, more than once, until she flipped on the lights and stormed through the flat, pulling pencil sketches and ink drawings down from the walls. They joined the littered confetti on the ground, haphazardly dropped until the walls were largely bare once more, and Lucy slumped unceremoniously back into the refuge of her blanket. 

She was still angry, but her frustrations were waning. There was nothing she could do about Peter or Arthur or Merlin. Lucy was upset that they were gone, but she could not order Peter or Arthur to stay, and she could not ask Merlin to come back—not after having told him he needed to go. 

Lucy was still annoyed with Edmund, of course. And with Susan. But as was often the case with the two, she wasn’t quite so frustrated with one as she was the other. This sort of thing was almost expected with Edmund. His escape was more a result of an ingrained pattern than a conscious choice. For all he played at being above his emotions, to be unswayed by their weight and influence, Edmund was ruled by them. Afraid of them even if he’d never admit it. 

But Susan was too logical to let her emotions sway her one way or another. Too practical to do anything just for the feeling. And Lucy hated her a bit for it. For actively deciding who of her life could remain and who couldn’t. For building such tall walls and then moving across the ocean, over a week’s journey away by ship, just to make sure no one broke them down. 

Lucy knew Susan was only doing what she thought she needed to in order to be safe, to keep from getting hurt. But in the process, she had done nothing but isolate herself, and that wasn’t the Susan she knew. That wasn’t the Susan that Lucy needed now, when there was no one else.

She hated it. 

It was dangerous to need someone else, but Lucy hadn’t felt this kind of desperation in years. Where she could not have the support of the ones she needed. Where she could not reach the ones who needed her.

But as much as Lucy wanted to pull Edmund back to Oxford by the ear from wherever it was he’d disappeared, she hadn’t a clue where that was. And Susan…

Lucy sat up abruptly, as though the position would help her remember where she’d put the note Peter had given her before leaving.

Susan had left an address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, if you haven't read my [once+always](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505669) series, the mention of nadora here will have been a bit surprising. but yes, i gave peter a wife (and kids, although i don't mention that here...). still working on the fic that follows their story (i'm hoping to have something started in the next couple months, but no promises.)
> 
> merlin and lucy are two peas in a pod with how lonesome they get. things get better for lucy before they do for merlin, but tbh, merlin's had a _lot_ more practice at sulking lol. next week's chapter will be a little shorter than the others, but it focuses entirely on susan in new york. until then, please comment, leave kudos, or come find me on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com))  
> 


	14. NEW YORK. LATE AUGUST 1945

Susan had just been thinking a bath might be nice, when the post arrived. A single letter today, from Lucy. It was unexpected, but Susan was quick to open it, anyway. 

_ Dear Susan, _

_ It’s only been a few weeks since you’ve gone, now, but I’m still not sure how long the post will take to reach you. I’m hoping not long.  _

_ Peter and Arthur have left again. I suppose I thought, with the surrender, they wouldn’t have a reason to go again, but I should have known better. The fallout was always the worst part, wasn’t it? _

_ The flat seems so empty now, since Merlin’s gone with them. It’s strange. I used to have someone to talk to, all the time, and now… well, now I don’t even have Edmund. I don’t blame him for leaving—I don’t think he knew what to do after everything with Merlin, and Arthur, I suppose—but I’m still upset he didn’t say goodbye.  _

_ I don’t blame Merlin for leaving either. It only makes sense that he would have gone with Arthur. I just hate waiting alone. You remember how it is, don’t you? Well, of course, you do. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. _

_ Well then. I hope you’re well in America. Please tell Malcolm hello for me. _

_ All my love, _

_ Lucy _

The words hurt. Not because they were particularly harmful, but because Susan knew exactly how her sister felt. They had all had to stay back at Cair Paravel, though perhaps she and Lucy more so than the boys. That was just the nature of their rule. Peter was the High King, expected to lead men to battle. And Edmund trailed him like a puppy until he learned to fight his own battles, sometimes with bloodshed, sometimes only with ink. 

Of course she knew what it was like, waiting alone, and she felt for Lucy. Susan wasn’t completely unfeeling, no matter what they might have thought. 

But she also knew it was very likely just that there was no one else for Lucy to turn to, and the sting of that knowledge left her feeling trivial and irrelevant. As though she were nothing but a last resort. Especially as Lucy hadn’t come to the docks when she left England. 

Malcolm’s proposal hadn’t been for marriage—though Susan had suspected it originally was intended to be. Instead, he offered a place for her in New York, a way for them to stay together and see what more lay ahead of them. He was serious about her, and, since Susan felt their relationship was, at least, more than the nonsense Edmund had claimed it to be, she agreed. 

In the weeks since they’d landed, Susan felt content with her choice. There wasn’t anything in Finchley for her but a childhood home, left empty for whomever of their family returned to it first—a wayward healer, a stubborn spy, a one-time queen, a soldier-king, or maybe even their grieving mother. 

Shaking her head, Susan scanned Lucy’s letter once more. It was as she tucked it back into its envelope that she found the postscript—written on the inside flap of the envelope.

_ P.S. I don’t blame you for leaving either. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you off. I should have.  _

Susan sighed. This, if nothing else, was a sign that Lucy would be fine. She didn’t hold onto her anger, particularly when it came to the family. She might be upset with Edmund still as she claimed—Susan was too—but given time, Lucy would be over that as well. 

Time, Peter had said, would fix it all. It had been worthless consolation for Susan, but he’d been right. Lucy used time in a way that Susan didn’t. Where time had turned her bitter, Lucy never seemed to falter under its brutality. She would be fine. And, should anything happen to the boys, Susan herself would hear word. If not through Lucy, then through Malcolm’s contacts, she was certain of it. There were plenty still left in England.

She slid the letter back into its envelope, careful not to snag the corners with her fingers, and then crossed the room to her closet. It was in pulling down her box of keepsakes to put Lucy’s letter with the others that she found it. 

A single sheet of paper, folded crisply. 

The creases alone showed how new it was. It wasn’t smudged, and with a quick flip through the others in the box, Susan realized it wasn’t a letter she’d seen before. The others were tucked in their respective envelopes, a way for her to keep the records of correspondence clean and safe. This one was bare.

Whoever had placed this here, knew her well enough to know her habits. To know where and how she kept the things from those most precious to her. And, considering who she’d picked these habits up from, Susan wasn’t surprised to have her suspicions confirmed by the simple, quick glance at the letter’s contents.

The neat and careful script could belong to no one but Edmund.

_ Susan, _

_ All I’ve ever wanted for you, for any of us, was a bit of happiness. Our lives have been difficult, between the wars in this world and the other, across the ocean, and with all the time we’ve lost.  _

_ I understand why you’ve stepped so far away from us, from who you used to be in Narnia. I wish you hadn’t, but I understand why you did. So, I’m sorry for what I said that night, about you and about Malcolm. It came from a place of frustration.  _

_ If I’m to be honest, I’m still frustrated. And maybe I don’t have any right to be. Maybe you are completely and truly happy with him. But I can’t wrap my head around it.  _

_ Maybe I’m not meant to, but the truth is—And I hope you’ll forgive me for burdening you with my confusion—I don’t believe you need him the way you think you do.  _

_ I don’t think you don’t need any of the things you think he gives you. You’ve never needed that sort of support from anyone but yourself. You’ve just hidden that part of yourself away. For safety and safekeeping while you look for something brighter, better.  _

_ I understand. You know I do. I just… Susan, what you’re searching for, it’s not as far as you think it is. It’s borne, in part, out of who you used to be, just as much as who you are now.  _

She could almost hear his voice—low and steady, not angry or sad, but broken underneath. Another plea, another request. To give herself a chance, to give the world one. Because it wasn’t trying to break her, and neither was the difference in the lives she’d lived. She was a product of their past, but that didn’t mean she had to be prisoner to it—none of them did. If anyone knew that, if anyone was proof of being someone new while still maintaining who they used to be, it was Edmund.

_ One day soon, or maybe one day in the distant future, you’ll understand them both—the queen you used to be and the woman you’ve fought to become after. Maybe you’ll go somewhere, or read something, or meet someone… But no matter how or when it happens, those sides of you will finally come together. You’ll know it for how it feels. A longing for something without a name. It’s the part of you that lives in the depths of your soul and just outside your skin, all at once.  _

_ Listen to it. And be gentle as you remeet the parts of yourself you’ve been at war with. _

_ I promise, you will have the life you’re looking for. You will remember what it means to be seen and how it feels to be known for all you are, in this world or the other. And it will not come at the cost of who you hope to be in the future. You can be the woman you’ve become in recent years. You can be the queen I’ve always known you to be. You can be both. You can be neither. Just so long as you are you, I don’t mind. And you know Peter and Lucy would agree. Please don’t forget. _

_ Edmund _

_ P.S. I know why you’ve gone away, just as I’m sure you know why I have as well. I don’t begrudge you for it. Take the time you need, and when you need me, I will be there. Because you’ll always be a sister of mine and that does not change between the worlds or our lives. _

Susan stared at the words, as if she didn’t understand where they had come from or why they had made her cry. But she should have known. 

Back in the doorway to her childhood room, she’d expected Edmund to say something, as if he ever relied on his voice. But she’d forgotten the truth. Hidden it away just like he said.

They all had the ability to command a room; it came with years of practice and experience, often as the youngest people in a room, no matter their actual title. But it was Lucy and Peter who held true power in their voices. Lucy could paint pictures with her words, and Peter had inspired entire armies with nothing more than a word or a phrase. Edmund, too, was a silvertongue, when the need arose, but his words had always held more weight on paper, brokering peace and declaring injustices with single missives and treaties all before the rest of them had had their morning meal.

She’d been that way too, once, able to maintain all manner of alliances with the stroke of her pen and royal seal. Susan had been strong once, fervently confident in her own authority. But she’d always been stronger with support. Edmund knew that and was offering his, reminding her that he was there.

But there was no way for her to reach him now, not with any speed. He was perfectly capable of finding her, of course. Susan was certain of that. But across an ocean, in a foreign country, she was making that harder than it needed to be. She had made it all so much harder by shutting him out. By shutting them all out. Edmund, Peter, and Lucy. 

She’d seen the way they faced the pain of their lives and thought, mistakenly, that they were stronger than she could ever be. Then, by turning from them, she’d only made it true. Of course they were stronger. They had each other while she’d isolated herself. 

And, now, based on Lucy’s letter, they were all alone.

Susan felt a jolt of homesickness then, but not for the house in Finchley, or even the lands of Narnia. Home wasn’t a house or a castle, not a town near the city or a kingdom in some other world. Not for her. Home was a feeling, a knowledge of belonging—to a place, to a people, to herself—and Susan felt it now in full, perhaps for the first time since she’d first encased it inside the armor she’d crafted for herself in recent years. Built from practicality and logic and reinforced by fear, she’d used it to hold herself together. To remember and forget herself, all at once, in some misguided effort to be safe and whole. But all that armor had done was ensure that she would remain fragmented. A part of herself and not. Separated from who she was.

“Susan, are you up there?”

She started at the sound of Malcolm’s voice, knocking the box to the floor as guilt crashed through her. The letters spilled out, mimicking the dread she felt spreading through her. Her family, her support, they were each alone. BUt where she could not go to her brothers, there was nothing to keep her from standing at Lucy’s side but her own pride. Had she really thought, just moments before, to leave her sister to fend off the demons of loneliness on her own when she herself had struggled with and resented the very trial of it for years?

Dropping to her knees, Susan shifted through the papers before plucking the envelope from the pile. 

Oxford.

“Susan! Are you alright?” Malcolm crossed the room to help her, but she was already shuffling the letters back together and tucking them away. A plan piecing itself together in her mind.

“Yes. No. I mean…” She wiped hastily at her cheeks and then sat back on her heels to look at him crouched beside her. “You’re dre—"

She blinked, only barely remembering.

“The dinner with your parents… Oh, I completely forgot!” She shifted, as if to stand, and Malcolm helped her up.

“Susan, it’s alright. Forget the dinner. What’s wrong?” 

She refrained from biting her lip as they moved to the edge of the bed. “I’ve just heard from Lucy.”

“Is she alright? Do you need anything?”

“Yes. Yes, she’s fine. I just…” She trailed, not quite sitting. She’d caught her reflection in the mirror situated along the wall beyond him.

“Susan?”

She ignored him and crossed the room to the vanity, taking in her own image. Her hair unbrushed and her face plain, the lines around her eyes were faint. They were easily hidden if she wanted, but Susan hadn’t today. She hadn’t bothered with any cosmetics, and all she could see in her face was the pain of the past, weary and weathered by all the doubt she’d carried. Beneath it though, something else began to poke its way through to the surface.

Cautiously, she took the strands of her hair toward the front and twisted them, her fingers remembering the pattern before her mind did, and after a moment Susan pulled the thin plait back. She held it against the crown of her head and turned, keeping her eyes to the glass.

She stared for some time, observing her own profile until finally, a subtle curve stretched across her lips and her eyes began to mist. For the first time in years, Susan felt she could finally recognize the person she saw looking back at her. As if it were the crown that made a queen. But this was who she was. A woman built from pain and love and strength and cunning. A woman of this world and another. A sister. A friend. A fighter. A survivor. A queen. 

She could be all these things, or none of them, just as Edmund said. She saw a faint smile through teary eyes, but that was alright too. 

“Susan? What is it?”

She dropped her hair and turned, decidedly to Malcolm.

“Don’t cry, darling. It’s only dinner.”

“It’s not that.” She smiled, softly, and took his hands in her own as she sat beside him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What are—"

He quieted when she shook her head. 

“Please. Just listen to me. Malcolm, you’ve been wonderful. Truly. But I can’t stay.”

“You can’t stay? I don’t understand. We’ve only just gotten here.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have come back here with you.”

“I thought…” He frowned, flustered. “I thought you wanted to come here. To be with me?”

“I did,” she smiled, cautiously. “But I’m needed at home.”

“This is home.”

Susan shook her head, gripping his hands tightly. She’d nearly forgotten, how much harder it was to let them down gently. But she had not been lying, that day with Edmund. Malcolm was a good man. And she might not need to explain everything—it would likely be best if she didn’t—but good men deserved better than lies. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’ll book a ticket on the next ship and stay with Miriam until then.”

“Is this about your family? About that fight? Are you still upset about that?”

It was about her family. They needed her and she needed them, and she’d been so blind all this time to it all that she’d convinced herself it would be okay to forego her family. The people who knew her best. The only people who knew and loved the sides of her she was too scared to remember. Who else could it have been about?

“I’m not upset with you. Not in the least. They just need me.”

“I need you.”

“Oh, Malcolm. Please don’t make this harder than it already is. You don’t need me. You don’t even know me.” Susan sighed and brought her hand up to cup his face.

“I don’t understand.”

She thought, for half a second, that she could tell him. Invite him into her world and her past. But she couldn’t. She needed to return to herself a bit more solidly before she invited someone else in after her.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been myself in nearly all the time I’ve known you. Not truly. It took me until just now to realize it.” She found his eyes and watched quietly as the truth came to rest in them. “I haven’t been fair with you. I’m sorry.”

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

Susan shook her head, and, when his eyes closed, she pressed her lips gently to his forehead. She had been happy with Malcolm, it was true. She had not lied to Edmund about that. But she knew she could be happier, and that wasn’t his fault, nor her own. 

She had thought Malcolm had known her, and in some ways, he had. He had known her enough to bring out a part of her that she’d enjoyed. A part of herself she had thought she was reclaiming somehow, reshaping into something new and right for this world, when she could no longer have the other. Except that one part had taken over the rest of her too, overshadowing what she hadn’t intended to dismiss. 

Susan had been looking for a way to feel whole and settled for a part. A wonderful part, but a part nonetheless. And now that she knew, it was impossible to ignore. To stay with Malcolm, when she knew there was no hope of sharing every side of her with him, would be detrimental to her own survival. 

She couldn’t keep burying the various sides of herself that were desperate to be seen. They deserved to live and breathe and exist in this world the same as they did in the other. Perhaps some part of Susan had known that and let them out, in some quiet way—to her siblings, to herself. Thinking about it now, she noted that a few may even have made their way to Arthur.

Perhaps those parts of her knew they needed the light and love that all living things needed to survive a winter and bloom again. But spring had come and gone so long ago that even summer was about to set, and the only thing Susan had managed to do was ignore the tender loving care she’d already had. In her sister. In her brothers. In herself.

It was time she returned to it, and in the process of finding herself again—truly and fully, Susan hoped to discover exactly what Edmund was up to. Because as much as he’d been right in everything he’d written, he’d been wrong in just one regard: she hadn’t a clue what  _ he _ was running away from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, we've got susan turned around again. she's got a ways to go still, but she's closer now, and she'll be closer still soon. next chapter, in fact! we'll also check in with the boys again next week, so see you then!
> 
> \-----  
> as always, i'd appreciate any comments or kudos you wanna leave, and i'm on tumblr ([@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)) if you wanna chat  
> 


	15. MALAYA/OXFORD. EARLY SEPTEMBER 1945

The war in the Far East had ended weeks ago with the bombing in Japan, but with all war, there were lingering insurgencies. So, while Arthur was glad they hadn’t been flown to where the aftereffects of the bombs were currently still being recorded, he was growing tired of the constant sweat and heat of the jungle where they had been dropped. And at night, the bugs came out of hiding, eager to add their torment in the stifling heat. Currently, it was taking everything he had not to upend his canteen over his head. 

“Here.” As if summoned, Merlin came up on his right, open hand outstretched. “Hand yours over. I know it’s empty.” 

Despite Arthur’s insistence that Merlin was absolutely no longer his servant—and very clearly had been so much more in all the time he had held that title—the pair had fallen quite easily back into old habits. More than once in the past few weeks, Arthur caught himself feeling more and more like his old, kingly self than his modern one, with the one man he’d trusted more than all others by his side.

More than just Merlin, however, it was the mission itself that put Arthur at ease. Regardless of the thick, wet heat, he was used to the tree cover and the slower progression of their unit through the jungle. It was a far cry from the type of assignment most of the men in their unit had experienced, but it was familiar to him. 

They were meant to find an abandoned CT base rumored to be nearby, to uncover intel on the larger network of guerilla warfare scattered across the lower peninsula. For Arthur, it was reminiscent of hunting trips and patrols through bandit country—their destination and assignment was just a touch more specific. 

Of course, there were other differences, too. 

In front of him, Merlin’s eyes flashed gold in the predawn darkness before Arthur felt the metal of his canteen being pressed back into his hands—cooler now, the water inside no longer heavy with heath. Simple magic, Merlin had explained, was still manageable. 

Merlin said it like he couldn't do anything else, and it had Arthur's curiosity burning to know what her _could_ still do. But they hadn’t delved into that part of their past just yet. Merlin hadn’t seem ready for it. So far, they’d talk sparingly of the days when Arthur was king and all the adventures and heartache they shared. Or rather, Merlin answered a few of Arthur’s various questions. Only the questions asked, though. 

Merlin settled down against a tree trunk nearby to wait out the rest of their watch. Sitting across from him in the quiet, Arthur felt that if he could just close his eyes he might be able to convince himself they were elsewhere. Back in the Darkling Wood or the Forest of Ascertir. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere that was theirs.

Instead, he watched in frustration as Merlin leaned his head back against the rough bark behind him, as though there wasn’t anything the matter.

Morning was nearly upon them when Arthur finally asked, “Do you think about it? Camelot?”

“Sometimes,” Merlin answered, after a few moments. “I’ve gone back, every once in awhile.”

“Back? But it’s gone, now, isn’t it?” 

“The citadel is long gone, yes. But the woods beyond the pastures are still there. Thinned out a bit, now I suppose.” He paused, as if trying to figure out how much more he wanted to share. “I spent more time by the lake.”

There were any number of lakes in the Five Kingdoms, but Arthur knew which one he meant. There could be no other.

“I spent a few decades in a cottage by the shore, until Aithusa came to find me. Nearly burnt the place down insisting I do something with my life.” Merlin laughed softly. “So I traveled. I even came here, actually, or hereabouts. It was different then, but the bugs were just as horrible.”

Arthur chuckled, “I’ve no doubt.”

“I used to go to the lake every year, on your birthday, you know. I would sit at the edge of the lake, sometimes in it. And from dawn till dusk, I would tell you about the things I’d seen and the places I’d gone. About all the people I’d met.”

They fell into another silence, with Merlin unwilling to share anything else and Arthur unsure of what he could say in response. He hadn’t heard anything from Avalon. Hadn’t known anything beyond his unconsciousness. He hadn’t even dreamed as he laid there, resting and waiting for the call to return, for whatever broken thing he was supposed to fix.

Watching Merlin as stray light cut through the underbrush, Arthur wondered if maybe he’d lost too much. Endured one, or two, or ten hundred losses too many to remain as he’d once been—strong and whole. In Arthur’s absence… no, _because of_ his absence, Merlin had learned to live a broken existence.

Arthur worried that it was too much. That the damage of everything he’d experienced would not heal.

“We must seem so small to you,” he said suddenly. “Especially in a war. Here and gone in an instant.”

“Yes.”

Arthur frowned. He hadn’t expected Merlin’s immediacy, or the way the tortured tone of his voice twisted into him.

“My heart is a thousand years old, Arthur,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Most of you are like a passing season by comparison. Maybe two. But some of you…” Merlin paused, tilting his head back to peer up at the branches above. “Some of you have this light around you that shines so bright it lasts for years after you’re gone. And if I’m lucky, I get to live by that light for a time. Like I did with you and Gwen.”

Arthur watched the soft morning light dance across Merlin’s face, distracted by the pinched corner of his lips, weariness folded into the lines. Then, Merlin dropped his gaze, and clear blue eyes stared directly into Arthur’s own. For a moment, they held like that—watching each other—and he wondered how often, in all the centuries past, Merlin had been left alone in the dark.

“It happened with Aithusa, too. Eventually,” Merlin confessed quietly. “Though I hadn’t expected his light to last quite so long. It should have… last of his kind and all.”

Last of his kind. Was that what Merlin was, too? Or was he just another kind altogether? The first. The last. The only.

“Lucy’s might outlast his, I think,” he continued, leaning forward. It was time to wake the others. “The whole damn lot of them have it, but Lucy… Lucy’s the brightest light I’ve seen in centuries.”

The sound of the smile in his voice was almost enough to bring a faint one to Arthur’s lips. But then, just before Merlin stood, Arthur caught the way he hunched his shoulders together—the way he did when there was more to say but nothing to share—and Arthur’s ghost of a smile faded.

Swallowing, he settled for what he’d been given and murmured, “She’s something else, alright. They all are.”

Lucy spent another two months at the hospital in Oxford, but they dragged on. She took up more shifts. Occupied herself with the work she loved. Threw herself into keeping busy until there wasn’t any business to be had. The hospital wings grew steadily smaller somehow, patients fewer and farther in between. Eventually, even the feeling of her flat shrank to the small square of her living room.

When she got home after a particularly quiet evening shift, she opened the front door to Mrs. Kimber’s voice, echoing through the hallway. 

“Oh, Lucy! I was hoping you’d be along soon. Look who’s co— Oh!”

The stout old woman had always made it clear that she did not entirely approve of Lucy’s wild child antics, that she did not care much for Lucy at all, but the truth was, Mrs. Kimber’s excitement for Lucy now was nothing compared to the rush Lucy felt, as she threw herself down the hall and straight into Susan’s arms.

“You’re back!”

“Hello, Lu,” Susan said softly, squeezing gently back. 

After too long, Mrs. Kimber cleared her throat awkwardly, and Lucy stepped reluctantly back, flushing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean t—"

“Yes, you did,” Susan interrupted. “Don’t be sorry for it.” 

She was smiling, cautiously, but smiling nonetheless, and Lucy wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Then, she heard the all too prominent tap of Mrs. Kimber’s shoes cutting across the wooden floor, and she couldn’t help the face she pulled.

Susan’s lips twitched, and, a moment later, she winked, just as Mrs. Kimber rejoined them. 

“Please, come in for some tea.”

“Ah,” Susan exclaimed. “That’s awfully kind, but I was… well, I was hoping to have a bit of a lie down. It’s been a long trip, and it’s rather late. I hate to keep you any longer.”

“O… oh,” the woman stammered, before remembering herself. “Of course. Of course. I understand. Well, if you need anything, please don’t hesitate.”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Kimber!” Lucy had already taken Susan’s hand and was pulling her along. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if her landlady was more excited at the prospect of Lucy having a proper role model, or the notion that Susan could possibly be related to her; she had a way of charming older adults in a way Lucy didn’t, but none of that mattered as she led her sister up the stairs. 

“You’ll have to excuse the mess. I haven’t…” She paused, wondering what sort of excuse Susan was likely to believe. “Well, I just haven’t bothered to clean.”

The flat wasn’t a particular mess. Just untidy. She’d washed the dishes, at least, and stacked the pictures she’d torn from the walls, but Lucy still hadn’t bothered to sleep in her own room, and the blanket draped over the sofa seemed embarrassingly out of place. Somehow more telling of her emotional state than anything else.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long. Have you eaten? When did you get back? Is Malco—"

“Lucy,” Susan cut in. “I really would like to sit, at least, if that’s alright.”

She blushed and gathered up the blanket to set aside. “Right. I’ll just…put the kettle on.”

As upset as she’d been, it was a relief to see Susan again after months alone. Lucy had gotten only a single letter from Peter since they’d gone saying they were fine, and nothing more from anyone else. That Susan had come by first was a surprise, but Lucy wasn’t complaining.

Well. She was complaining a little—silently—to herself as she focused on lighting the stove top. 

Lucy loved her sister dearly and was grateful to see her, but as close as they’d been once, there were only a handful of moments recently that she felt they had truly talked. The last of it—aside from their argument over the summer—might have been while they were both still at St. Finbar’s, which surprisingly felt much further in their past than Lucy was certain it was. A few years, perhaps? Whatever time had passed, it was too long. And with it, came a specific sort of tension. 

It had been borne out of Susan’s more formal nature, present in her personality since long before they discovered Narnia, and Lucy’s own childlike wonder, which she never seemed to grow out of in either world. The two sisters were, among many other things, opposites. One steady and cautious, the other wild and reckless. Quiet, loud. Dark, light. 

At times, it had been their saving grace. The inverse of each other, they had worked in tandem to earn the attention and respect they deserved as child-queens of a nation older than their memories. In moments like this, however, it felt more like a wedge, a wall, something built between them that dropped and rose on a matter of whim.

Setting the tray down on the table, Lucy poured Susan’s cup first, then her own. She sat back in the winged-back chair that, until not too long ago, had been Merlin’s chair. It was where he’d had perched when he told his stories, and where Lucy had taken to sleeping lately. There was a comfort in it, even now.

“Malcolm didn’t come with me.”

She looked up from the shallow shade of brown swirling in her cup. “He didn’t?”

Susan shook her head.

“Oh,” Lucy wasn’t quite sure what to say. She hadn’t particularly liked Malcolm. He’d instantly struck her as the kind of person who would never treat her with any sort of respect, focusing more on her age and youth than the actual person she was—which made her think poorly of him and what he might think of Susan. Then, of course, he hadn’t helped his case by punching Edmund, no matter whose fault that really was.

Still, she knew Susan had cared for him. 

“Are you…”

“Fine. It was my decision, actually.”

“It was?” She perked up, curious. Their time in Narnia had been fraught with suitors, first for Susan, but even for Lucy, eventually. She hadn’t bothered much with the formality of it, bored to tears of propriety and expectations by the time she was to be in the habit of courting. 

Susan, however, had always managed to maintain a certain kind of elegance, no matter if she was considering the hand of a well-mannered man or an unpleasant one. So much so that the court could rarely determine which was which.

“Malcolm was sweet, despite what happened that night, and he truly did care for me. I thought…” Susan paused and set her cup down before continuing. “I thought I found what I wanted with him. Something real, something present, something here.”

Lucy did her best not to flinch at the reminder of their last conversation. She understood why Susan had done what she had, but that was as far as she was willing to go with it all. Lucy had a hard time approving actions that she knew were hurtful to others, but more than that, she couldn’t accept that Susan would have done something so harmful to herself.

“But I got too caught up in it all.” Susan let out a shaky breath and it fell into a short, choppy sort of laugh. “I was angry. At leaving Narnia. It was hard enough the first time, and harder still, to go back and see just how much we lost. I was furious. We had entire lives there, why couldn’t we have had futures, too?”

Lucy opened her mouth, but she had no answer for her sister. It was a question she’d asked herself, again and again and again. Wishing she could come up with something worth holding onto for an answer. But she never did.

“I wanted to find something like it. Like Narnia. Something to keep and love. Something that was mine that couldn’t be taken from me. Malcolm gave me a bit of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“He reminded me how much I love to be around people. How much I want others to enjoy themselves. How much I love to dance, even. I felt…a kind of peace with him.”

“So what happened?”

“I thought it was enough. I focused so hard on how I didn’t feel like I was hurting that I forgot how easy it could be to lie to yourself. I thought it was enough, that I was happy and whole. But I wasn’t. Not with him, and not with who I’d become.”

Lucy frowned, not quite sure she was following anymore. “How did you… I don’t understand. I thought you liked how you were?”

“I did. I still do. But it wasn’t all of me. Malcolm reminded me of the parts of myself I could reasonably embrace without having to deal with everything else I was actively shutting out. He helped me remember everything except the parts that hurt, the parts that help you recognize your worth.”

Susan finally found Lucy’s eyes, with a careful curve to her lips and a gentleness reflected in her own. It was endearing to see again, nostalgic and warm.

“I spent all this time shutting you out, I didn’t realize I’d done the same to myself. I thought I lost a part of myself in Narnia—left it there, maybe. But I didn’t. I just buried it somewhere I didn’t think I’d come across it again. It took Edmund’s letter for me to understand that.”

“Edmund wrote you?” Lucy asked, grasping the only thread that made any clear sense. “When?”

“I’m not sure. Before he left, I think. He put it with my other letters.” She grinned properly then, full and wide. “You know, I wouldn’t have known about it if it wasn’t for your letter.”

“Mine? You read it?”

“Of course I did. It’s why I came home,” she said. “I didn’t want you to have to be alone.”

“I… Thank you.”

Lucy wasn’t quite sure she understood what Susan was saying. She wasn’t sure she would ever understand why Susan had done any of this, but maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe it was enough that Susan was there, and that she wasn’t shutting her out anymore.

She smiled at the thought and watched with bright eyes as Susan’s lips held in a matching grin.

“I’m not making much sense, am I?”

Lucy chuckled, “I’ll admit, it’s a bit hard to follow everything. You’ve changed… but, you haven’t? And you forgot, but you didn’t.”

“Well, I haven’t made things quite as clear as I’d like,” Susan laughed. “But I suppose the long and short of it is that I’m sorry I pushed you away. I can give you a hundred reasons why I did, but I clearly can’t be trusted to do that all that well right now. I just. I guess I tried to forget who I was for awhile. I didn’t want to remember because it hurt too much.”

This much, Lucy could grasp. This, she understood, perhaps too well. “I’m sorry, too. I can’t imagine I made it particularly easy for you through all this.”

Susan shook her head. “No more than I complicated things all on my own, really.”

The silence between them wasn’t exactly comfortable, but Lucy felt less on edge in the quiet now than she had before. Comfort was a strange thing, Lucy had it more often than she didn’t, was able to find it in places most others couldn’t. Between Susan and herself now, it manifested out of unspoken understanding.

“Lucy?” Susan asked before long.

“Yes?”

“What did you mean, in your letter, about Edmund and things with Merlin?”

“Oh.” Lucy’s smile was hesitant. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

Susan settled back into the sofa, tucking her feet under herself and took a slow sip from her cup. 

“I’ve got time, if you’d like to tell me.”

There were only about a dozen of them, but the going was slow through the jungle. Their unit was trudging through near-swamp-like mud, with too much gear and not enough light overhead, especially with the day waning. But still, Merlin could feel the change in Arthur clearly. They were drawing closer and closer to their destination; the pathways had narrowed and the echoes of the birds had hallowed out steadily in the last hour. Something was up ahead, and it had been a long few days. A good amount of time for all sorts of anticipation to build.

“Pevensie. King. You boys up for a bit of scouting?”

Arthur perked up further, if possible. He was eager for it, and Merlin only needed to glance at Peter to know he was the same. 

Conversely, Merlin sighed. He had hoped at least one of them would have some sense of self-preservation. As it was, he’d followed two over-eager, arrogant fools into war.

“Right then. You know the drill. Back by morn—" Kipler paused, frowned, and then continued. “Take the medic. Last we need is you two dying on us. We’d never get out of this damn jungle alive.”

Arthur looked over at Merlin briefly, questioning, but he only shook his head. Kipler’s decision was his own, and as relieved as Merlin was to go along, it didn’t sit well with him. It seemed like a bad idea to venture out blind when information would become readily available in a matter of time.

Then again, both Arthur and Peter appeared more than happy to follow through with a bad idea today. They really were two of a kind. 

The three of them had likely only just made it out of earshot from the rest of their unit when Arthur started. “What do you think, Pevensie? Ten klicks?”

Up ahead, Peter seemed to think it over before answering, “Twenty. The usual?”

“How about a double?”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Merlin muttered, bringing up the rear.

“Just trying to liven things up a bit, Merlin.”

“You’re welcome to throw in your own bet, if you like.” Peter offered.

“Be a bit unfair, I think. Since I can see the path ahead.” It was a recent return of power to him, something he’d forgotten was even possible but was pleased to discovered. It was easier, somehow, with Arthur nearby.

Peter turned back, “Then why the hell aren’t you leading us? It’s getting dark.”

“You didn’t ask,” Merlin answered, leaving out the fact that it was also tiring. He hadn’t thought much of using his magic like this in years. For something more than some small trick or to enhance some medicine. It was strange, to be able to flex his power out in the open, without worry that anyone would find out. Strange, but good. 

“Want to give us a hint about how much more we have to go?”

“And ruin the fun?”

“Spoilsport.”

The trio quieted, as was probably for the best, and they crept forward in relative silence for the next couple hours until they bumped almost straight into a short but sturdy complex. That they hadn’t heard anything was likely a good sign that their intel about the base being abandoned was accurate. 

Still, in the dim evening light, Merlin found the compound oddly creepy. Walls mostly covered in vines, or broken where they weren’t. When he finally pulled his attention from the battered building, both Arthur and Peter were staring at him. 

“What?”

“We don’t think there’s anyone home, but ah… We also don’t think we should risk going in unless absolutely necessary.”

“Oh.” Well then, guess it was time to be useful. Merlin turned back to the building, eyes scaling up the side. “We’ll need to go around, at least.”

“Can’t see past leaves?”

“I need a door. A window, something open,” Merlin explained, dropping his gaze from the roof to Arthur’s curious expression. “For a path. Can’t look beyond something I can’t actually look into.”

They crept slowly along the edge of the elaborate compound, turning the first corner, then the second before they found an entrance worth using.

“There,” Merlin announced, pointing to the open doorway. “That should work.”

They approached slowly, but Merlin’s magic flowed freely when he set it forth—the light of his eyes burning low as he sought out the various corners of the compound from the doorway.

The building was properly abandoned, as far as he could tell. A bit run down structurally—wood chipped and splintering around the minimal metal fastenings, hinges and the like—but there was only trace evidence of anyone having been there in the past several months, let alone anytime recently.

“So?”

Merlin blinked, coming back to himself. He’d underestimated how long he’d ignored the true reach of his magic. Even something moderate like this pulled at the rest of him. His magic was eager to be set free, to do something more. 

“Merlin?”

“It’s empty. Everything looks cleared out…”

“Well, let’s get back then. We’ve already been gone lo—"

“Wait…” Peter called, looking out toward the far side of the open grounds. Then, without warning, he turned and shoved the two of them through the doorway and against the walls. 

“Wha—" 

Arthur slipped a hand over Merlin’s mouth before he could finish his question, pressing a single finger to his own lips in warning. When Merlin nodded, Arthur pulled his other hand back.

It took a minute, but the sound of chatter and clattering metal was hard for even Merlin to miss. “That sounds…”

“Close, yeah.”

“Within the grounds, or out?”

“In.”

It was odd, watching the pair of them draw the same conclusion. Stranger still for Merlin to look at Arthur and follow his gaze to Peter, and back again. Like they couldn’t decide which of them should take the lead. Regardless, Merlin knew what their expressions meant and reached for his rifle.

“Right then. I don’t imagine either of you want to just wait it out?”

“Not particularly.”

“I wasn’t brought back just to play it safe.”

“You couldn’t play it safe to save your life,” Merlin scoffed, a faint bitterness punching through. 

Arthur caught it and locked eyes with him. Brief, serious. “I am done with dying, Merlin.”

He held Arthur’s gaze for a minute, letting the promise sink in. Then Merlin shook his head in a light shrug. “Well then. Best get on with it.”

Arthur nodded and glanced past him to Peter. “After you?”

He was grinning wide. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They were outnumbered, at least four to one, but none of that mattered. Arthur was a crack shot, and Peter was quicker than anything Merlin had seen before.

Merlin himself was slower, hesitant in killing. Having spent centuries spending his time saving others, it was hard to cross back over the line to the other side, even in war. Peter and Arthur had no such qualms, lining up their sights to take their shorts in quick succession. Before Merlin knew it, the number of enemies still left standing had been cut in half. 

That was the advantage, Merlin figured, of being with men as eager for a fight as Arthur and Peter. Both had been anxious for it from the moment they’d entered the jungle. It made them sharper, keen to add yet another story of recklessness and adventure to their repertoire. 

Of course, it did not hurt that they had the added benefit of guns and a defensible position. Though they were still restricted by limited ammunition and the risk of being trapped. 

“Shit,” Arthur muttered at the click of his gun. 

Merlin groaned when his did the same, a dreadful echo, and wondered if he had some unnatural ability to think the future into being. Reaching for the extra magazine at his hip—he had only the one—Merlin passed it over anyway, then peered around the edge of the open doorway.

“How’s it look?” Arthur asked

“Depends, how many more bullets have we got?”

“A mag and a half?”

Merlin settled back against the wall. Fifteen shots, give or take. 

Peter asked, “Okay, and one grenade, unless either of you have one?”

“Jones took my last one the other day.”

Merlin sighed. Still not enough, then. He took another quick look, curious as the sounds of assault died down. 

They might have been a bit wild with their shots, but the CTs weren’t dumb. They were waiting them out. Sighing, he turned back around and stared at the opposite wall. He supposed, if push came to shove, he could try to knock some of them back with magic. At the very least, he could give the three of them time to put some distance between them. 

But he was hesitant to use his magic. Not when he didn’t know for sure how far it would go, or how much control he would have. It had been too long.

He took a moment to think harder, and then turned to Peter. “Hand me the grenade, I’ve got an idea.”

“Does it involve us getting the hell out of here? We’ll be sitting ducks if we’re here much longer.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, Merlin hooked the pin and an explosion was quick to follow. 

Except there were two things he didn’t understand.

First, the explosion came from behind them, from outside the building.

Second, the grenade Peter had given him—a _smoke_ grenade now that he was looking more carefully—was still in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll confess i didn't do as much research as i should have regarding transatlantic travel times by ship, but i do know it was closer to weeks, as opposed to months by this point. i'm also really glad susan and lucy get some time together here. i didn't get too much more into it for the rest of this fic, as there wasn't much point for it in the story, but i do want to explore their relationship more in the sequel :) otherwise, i'm really just excited for the next couple chapters--they were some of my absolute favorite to write, and i'm so glad we're nearly there!
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated, and i'm [@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com) on tumblr :)  
> 


	16. MALAYA. EARLY SEPTEMBER 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up;; minor character deaths in this chapter. one is much gentler than the other, but neither are particularly explicit. there's also mention of open wounds and blood.

Charles Wilkins was not a horrible partner. He was a competent and quick thinking. Easy enough to work with, he had a decent humor. All in all, a better choice for the current mission than either Nicholson or Travers would have been.

But he was loud, even when he wasn’t talking. And the noise reminded Edmund of why he preferred to do his work alone. It was difficult, folding himself into an existing system when he was used to running one, used to having created his own. 

“Who d’ya think’s inside?”

“I don’t know,” Edmund answered, wiping his brow as he watched the firefight below. It was the first sign of activity they’d noticed all week, and it made Edmund anxious. “But whoever it is, they certainly weren’t on the guest list.”

The pair of them were tucked in the underbrush, adjacent to the west side of the CT compound. Their official mission was to map out the various stations around the country, nothing more, nothing less. They weren’t meant to engage further than that, and there were plenty of reasons to stick to orders. The largest being that they’d already lost full daylight, sun down below the treetops below. It was only by the trick of light cutting through the branches behind them now that they could see anything at all.

Most of the gunfire was focused on the door, where Edmund guessed there were no less than three unfortunate souls braced against the walls, distinguishable by their shooting patterns. Shots came in pops of four from one, sets of three from another, and in a slower, but steadier drone from a third. 

They’d all stopped just a minute ago.

“I think we should help them.”

“What?” Edmund pulled his attention from the scene laid out in front of them to find his partner checking his ammunition.

“Well there aren’t that many of the bastards left. I think I count a dozen and a half? Besides, whoever’s inside… They’re friendlies. I’m sure of it.”

Edmund hated the term. There was no space in war for friends, but by and large, he agreed. Whoever it was that took cover within the building—dumb as they were to pick such rickety shelter—had the same enemies as they did. And, up until now, it was only Wilkins that kept Edmund from giving into the base urge he felt to get involved. But if his partner was willing to go against orders, who was Edmund to object? It felt a bit like a free pass.

“Are you sure?” he asked, anyway, for formality’s sake. He was already pulling his own rifle from over his shoulder.

“You can tell Nicholson I was the reckless one this time.”

Edmund grinned. Wilkins wasn’t a horrible partner at all. “Planning to get closer or are you thinking of something else?”

“I’ve seen your targets at the range,” he chuckled. “You’re shit beyond fifty yards.”

Smirking, Edmund reached to the small of his back. Distance wasn’t something he cared for, and he didn’t care who knew it. He had other talents.

“Too big?” He held the grenade up. With his aim at this distance, it would be a distraction more than anything else. But that was all they were looking for.

Wilkins shrugged, and Edmund shook his head, hooking the pin with his thumb. “If I die for this, it’s on you.”

“If you die, Pevensie, we’re all screwed.”

As much as he wanted to aim for the handful of CTs congregating around the open doorway, Edmund wasn’t so naive as to think their friends—whoever they were—had backed far enough away. Yanking the pin, he settled for the next best thing and targeted the group toward the back of the yard. 

The resulting bang prompted an instant return of gunfire up into the treeline, and Edmund found himself pressing forward into the yard sooner than he anticipated. 

The largest problem with grenades, helpful though they were, was that they were traceable when thrown. So, no matter how much Edmund wanted to pick off the little clustered group by the door, one by one, he couldn’t. He had to move first.

Abandoning the treeline, he moved toward the open ground while still half turned against it, eyes and gun trained on the CTs closing in from the back edge of the clearing. He hated to keep his back to the others, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to go farther into the trees where he’d lose what little visibility he had. Besides, Wilkins was there to cover him.

Edmund managed to drop a few of the men while edging into the yard before he noticed the familiar scent of acid. Faint, but distinct. When he finally placed the smell, his first thought was that smoke grenades were pointless. It was nearly dusk, and light would leave them soon. 

Then he heard the gunfire slow to a near stop, and he realized something else. Smoke screens were as good a distraction as an explosion when it came to men who fought close range.

With a grin, Edmund focused on the remaining targets ahead of him. He picked off a handful in quick succession as they loitered at the edge of the shroud of smoke before there was a rough grunt. A familiar voice followed, but it wasn’t one he could properly place.

“Pevensie, you still there?”

There was no answer at first—just a heavy thud—then a voice Edmund would know in his sleep.

“Just keep going.”

“Pete?” he whispered, before a yell behind him caught his attention.

Edmund turned and then dropped low, cursing against the dirt. He only barely evaded the CT swinging at him with what looked like a misshapen machete. Twisting, Edmund thrust up the flat end of his rifle and cuffed the man against the back of his knees to send him sprawling, the curved blade dropping heavily beyond reach. 

From the ground, his entire viewpoint changed. The smoke had drifted up, clearing the area around the knees of the various men once crowded together by the building, but with the waning daylight Edmund could only note the quick but heavy footfalls moving in his general direction.

Rolling out of the way, he posted up against a wooden structure and braced against it as he watched the smoke part, giving way to first a British soldier, and then the CT behind him. Carefully, he lined up his sights and pulled. The shot trailed faintly through thinning smoke, but there was only the sound of one body dropping to the ground, and Edmund grinned.

“You never did learn to watch your own back, did you?”

“Ed?” Peter asked, stepping through the last of the smoke unscathed, then laughed. “Why bother? You always do it for me.”

Edmund flashed a lazy grin and then made to turn, hoping to survey the rest of their situation when, out of his periphery, he caught the shift in Peter’s expression. Then, all Edmund knew was the force of being shoved back, out of the way, and the look on his brother’s face as the machete cut across his arm before lodging itself into the wood at his side.

There was a fleeting moment of anger, twisted in worry and fear, before Edmund moved. Forgetting his gun—forgetting everything—he gripped the machete, yanked it free, and spun on his heels in one smooth motion, pleased to find the assailant so close. Despite the machete’s heavy end and the blade’s short length, Edmund had no problem cutting straight across the man’s torso. The jagged edge proved useful, at least.

He left it sticking out of the man’s gut, shoved in deeper than strictly necessary, then turned back.

Peter was leaning against the wood, hand over the bulk of his upper arm as though bare flesh could stop the bleeding. 

“I’m fine.”

Edmund scowled, eyeing the blood seeping through the fingers wrapped tightly around Peter’s right arm. He didn’t believe it for a second, but Edmund squashed his anger. There’d be time to be upset about it later. “Sit. I’ll get Wilkins, and we’ll take care of it.”

“I’d ra—”

“Sit,” he snapped, fixing his brother with a glare.

Peter slumped.

Around them, the scene had quieted. The pop of gunfire had stopped, and the ground was littered with bodies. Across the yard were the other men Peter had been with. Edmund could only barely make them out as the night began to settle over them, but his eyes adjusted to the dark quickly. 

One stood at the other’s side bent over someone’s body. He couldn’t fathom what they would be doing crouched over a CT—not that he knew what their orders were—and frankly, he didn’t care.

Continuing his turn with no sign of Wilkins, though, a thought fluttered past him, and Edmund traced it back to the pair he’d passed over and froze.

“You should go. I’ll be fine for the moment.”

Edmund only turned halfway toward his brother. He knew the look Peter would have on his face, and the one he wouldn’t be able to hide on his own.

“Go, Ed… See to him.”

He let his eyes close briefly, knowing an order when he heard one. Decidedly, Edmund managed to shuffle his feet, one in front of the other, and the distance between him and the others grew smaller. When he was close enough, the one standing turned.

“I’m sorry.”

Edmund jerked his head, once, recognizing Arthur’s voice this time, but he didn’t bother to look at him. Instead, he dropped to his knees by his partner’s body, not daring to look up at the man on Wilkins’s other side. Just seeing those hands splayed across his bloody chest, unmoving, was too much. 

Merlin had been the last person he wanted to see out here.

“Edmund…”

He kept his eyes trained on Wilkins, and maybe Merlin could sense that Edmund was not here for words, with him or anyone else. Whatever the case, when Arthur stepped forward to retrieve him, Merlin complied.

For several shaky breaths and an endless string of unsaid apologies, Edmund simply sat there, staring. Then, straightening slightly, he pulled the tags from Wilkins’s neck and tucked them into the inner lining of his jacket. Edmund wasn’t naive enough to think he could bring the body back, not when their rendezvous spot was a three days walk away and there was at least another week to go before anyone would be there for them, for him. 

He took a deep, steadying breath and then another. War stopped for no one and left all manner of corpses in its wake. Edmund knew this, and Wilkins had known it, too. Once done with sentiment, he reached decidedly for the knife at his partner’s belt and fished the various stitching supplies from his pockets, cataloging as he went.

When he stood, he found Arthur and Merlin a few strides away, standing there idly like idiots, waiting for him when his brother was still likely in danger of bleeding out. 

Edmund walked right past them.

“Pevensie?” 

Arthur frowned, hearing the man lying prone on the ground call for Peter. Merlin, kneeling at his side, twisted to look at him, confused. This was not someone from their unit.

“Did we get ‘em?” the man asked. His voice was rough and strained, forcing Merlin to turn back.

Arthur watched him add more pressure to the blood still weeping from his chest, but even he knew it wasn’t enough.

“Hold on,” Merlin urged.

“Did we get…” he coughed, more than once, and his shoulders bucked. Still, he tried again. “Did w—" 

“Yes,” Arthur interrupted, stepping forward. He knew only the basics of field medicine, but he’d seen enough men go to know there was nothing they could do but give the man what he was asking for, what he needed. “Got them all.” 

The tension lifted from the man’s face. He even smiled, barely, just before the rest of his life left him. It was as much of a gift as Arthur, or anyone else, could have given him.

After a moment, Arthur reached for Merlin, but his friend only shook his hand from his shoulder. He didn’t move, even when a yell sounded from across the yard. Even when, a short while later, someone else approached them.

They weren’t Peter steps, heavy and sure, but they still belonged to a Pevensie. Because that was what Arthur had worked out, as the man lay dying. It wasn’t Peter he’d known and asked for. 

It was Edmund. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur called, though he knew the words meant nothing. Edmund seemed to register them, at least—briefly—then he knelt on the ground opposite Merlin. His hair was matted down across his forehead where it poked out beneath his helmet, as if it was anchored by the life Edmund still had where his friend did not. 

He kept his eyes down, unwilling or perhaps unable to do otherwise, even when Merlin spoke his name. His voice was hoarse, Edmund’s name coming out in a half whisper, as though it was all he could manage. 

This time, Edmund didn’t answer to his name, did not even grant Merlin the same jerk of his head as he had Arthur. So, for a second time, Arthur set his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and this time, he refused to pull away until the man followed. 

Slowly, the pair of them retreated. He could feel the tremor in Merlin’s arm as they stood a few steps away, letting Edmund do as he wanted. But where Arthur watched his friend, Merlin’s eyes were glued to the pair on the ground. He watched them until Edmund stood and passed them again, gaze trailing.

“Merlin?” he asked, voice low. “Are you alright?”

He shook his head but did not leave time for Arthur to pry further, following Edmund first with his eyes and then with his feet.

The blood soaking Peter’s sleeve was a surprise, but when Arthur turned to Merlin, he only stood there, unmoving. Eyes still strangely glazed over and focused all at once. It was not unlike the night they met. Shocked, somehow, too far out of his body. It was unlike him, but Arthur could not shake him or yell at him here. 

Instead, he took his canteen and approached the two brothers. “Edmund.”

Edmund gave him a hard, disapproving look, but eventually relented. Then, as soon as he’d gotten what he needed, he waved Arthur away again.

Though frustrated, Arthur did as he was asked. Edmund was upset, and it wasn’t just grief or worry. There was something else in his eyes, seeping out from behind his usual determined composure. Arthur couldn’t place it, couldn’t comprehend any part of it except that whatever it was came from a deep-seated and ancient pain, something more than the fresh wound in Peter’s arm. 

“Pete?” Edmund asked, kneeling heavily enough into the dirt that his joints protested. “You still with me?”

Peter smiled, weakly, “I’m breathing… aren’t I?”

Edmund tried to return the optimism, really, he did. But Peter’s breaths came too short and his hand was slipping from the wound. 

“Dizzy?” he asked, feeling awkwardly along the damp fabric of Peter’s sleeve until he hit skin. It was slick with blood and hot to the touch, but he focused on slipping the edge of Wilkins’s knife under the edge of the fabric. He cut clear up to the shoulder and pulled the sleeve off in its entirety. The strip of linen he’d taken from Wilkins wasn’t gauze and it certainly wouldn’t be sterile, but it was better in the short term than using any of their clothes. 

“Edmund.”

He cut a sharp look to the side. Arthur stood beside him holding out a canteen. Edmund focused on moving his hands gently up along Peter’s arm, hoping the contact would hide the hesitation in his fingers; then, he nodded. 

“How mad…” Peter winced against the sting in his arm as Edmund used the cool water to wash as much of the blood away as possible. After a second, he tried again. “How mad do you think Lu’ll be?”

Edmund frowned, feeling distinctly that it was not Lucy’s anger Peter should be worrying about. Then, with a huff, he waved Arthur away and felt along the gash. It was long and curved along the muscle. Peter had moved when the steel bit in. “Fairly.”

“More or less?”

“More or less than what?” he asked, wrapping the cut carefully. Blood seeped through the first layers quicker than he wanted but disappeared as he wrapped further. He pulled tighter, as much for Peter’s sake as for his own. As if covering the wound would be enough.

It had been too long since he’d had to do this.

“When Torienne re-opened his stitches…with the wolves?” Peter spoke slowly, whispering the words laboriously.

Edmund tied the ends tight, flustered at the memories. “Torienne wasn’t with us when we fought the wolves. That was you.”

“No wolves… No stitches.”

“No wolves. Yes stitches,” he corrected, still ignoring the question. Lucy would be livid; it didn’t matter how much or how little. “Come on. There’s a safer spot not far from here.” 

Taking Peter’s good arm across his shoulders, Edmund hefted his brother’s weight up. 

“Here, let me…” Arthur offered, stepping forward again.

Edmund shook his head. This, he could do alone. He shuffled for a better grip, and Peter inhaled sharply. 

“Pete?”

“M’fine…fine.”

His eyes were screwed shut against the pain, which Edmund knew was better than the alternative, but already he knew his little alcove was too far.

Then he felt it. The first splash of rain against his forehead. Edmund sighed and glanced over his shoulder back to the building. 

He didn’t want to stay here, but they were falling further into the dark and his campsite was no proper shelter in a downpour. There wasn’t anywhere else. 

“Best to stay the night here and head back in the morning,” he decided, before nodding at the wooden barricade Peter had been propped up against. “Bring some of that in. We’re going to need a fire.”

Of all the people Merlin had expected to come to their rescue, Edmund was the last. In fact, he was so far behind everyone else on the list, Merlin wasn’t quite sure he was even meant to be on it at all. 

His companion, whoever he was, was a better fit for the bill: unknown, but very clearly on their side, or at least, not against them. The intervention was all they needed for a quick leg up against the CTs. But like so many of the men Merlin had come across in this damned war, this man wasn’t lucky enough to survive his own daring rescue.

Truthfully, none of them seemed to have much luck, Merlin least of all. If he had any, he might never have crossed paths with Edmund again. But at the sight of him, Merlin felt the weight of all his years contract in his chest. It was all he could do just to breathe.

Despite Arthur’s attempts to get him to… well, do anything, Merlin took Edmund’s initial reaction to him and resolved to say and do nothing without invitation. Short of releasing the magic that simmered beneath his skin, there wasn’t much more Merlin could do about Peter, anyway. Edmund had all the same things Merlin had in his own pack. Equally prepared and equally stubborn, Edmund seemed dead set against assistance. Even when Arthur finally offered his help, it was clear that he only did what Edmund would allow. 

That was the difference between them. Arthur may have known himself to be a king in a past lifetime, but Edmund had never stopped being one. He carried himself with the same authority now, while weary and tense, as Merlin knew he must have before, in Narnia.

Merlin wished he didn’t recognize the differences with such conviction. Wished he didn’t feel the need to compare them, or feel so compelled to follow one more than the other.

“Do you even need the wood?” Arthur asked him quietly once they found the room Edmund and Peter had settled in. But Merlin didn’t bother to answer. Anything he said would be hurtful.

“Merlin?” Arthur tried again. “Couldn’t you just…” 

Merlin tried the flint a couple times more before Arthur huffed and took over for him. The fire he coaxed into being was modest, and the light wasn’t much, but Arthur seemed to think it reached far enough because he settled against the wall adjacent to the two brothers afterward.

Sensing Arthur’s hesitant desire to try, yet again, to get some sort of response out of him, Merlin turned to watch the smoke, following its trail from the room, through the tracks in the wall and into the rest of the building. Then, he too sat back, knees pulled up and held against his chest. Dropping his gaze to the fire just beyond his feet, he pointedly kept from looking up at the Pevensies.

Merlin, Arthur decided, was being an idiot. In all of his memory of him, Arthur had never known Merlin to be so infuriatingly lifeless. Even when he’d nearly died against the Dorocha, Merlin had had more fight in him.

Arthur wasn’t entirely insensitive to the fact that Merlin had clearly changed in the years he’d been alone, but Merlin as he was now—unresponsive and unwilling to look anyone in the eye—was exasperating enough for Arthur to turn his attention to the Pevensies, on the other side of the fire.

Peter was quite still, it seemed he was no longer conscious, and Edmund was half turned to the fire, running is fingers over a pack of dark stitching thread and through his other supplies. Arthur watched him move through the various items twice before turning back to Peter.

Edmund propped his brother’s unconscious form up against the wall with surprising ease, and once satisfied with his positioning, unwrapped the bandage—it was a waste, really. They should have stitched him up first.

The bleeding hadn’t stopped, exactly. Arthur could see it trail down his arm the moment the last of the cloth fell away, but Edmund wiped away what he could, as though he’d seen worse.

Then he picked the needle from his pack and turned toward the fire.

By the focused look on his face, Edmund knew, just as much as Arthur did, that a fire would provide poor sterilization. But he held the needle as close to the flame as he dared, for a good stretch of time longer than Arthur thought his fingers would manage. He wondered briefly if Edmund even registered the heat.

“Going to be a lot of them, Pete,” Edmund murmured, once turned back to his brother. “Not as bad as Ettinsmoor, but maybe with Lord Haiffan…”

He talked while he worked, rattling off names and memories from Narnia in his usual quiet, measured tone, whether Peter heard it or not. And despite not knowing the significance behind most of what was said, Arthur got the sense that it provided a comfort to Edmund, if no one else. As though it was all part of an old routine. 

Watching Edmund more closely, Arthur soon realized that it was. His movements were too practiced, his hands as steady as his voice, and his stitches neat. It went slowly but properly. Clearly, he’d done this before.

Really, Arthur shouldn’t have been so surprised to find that Edmund was just as stubbornly protective of his family as Peter was. He had yet to see any of the Pevensies fail to do something for each other.

“All done, Pete,” Edmund said with a quiet huff as he tossed the needle into the fire, wasted now. “A whole fourteen of them.”

“He’ll be alright?” Arthur asked.

Edmund didn’t answer right away, settling into the space beside his brother. “Should be. As long as he’s careful enough not to tear them open.”

“Well, then we’re doomed,” Arthur joked, though it didn’t seem to land.

“Why do you care?” The younger Pevensie had such an unnerving stare, it was hard not to falter under it. 

Hard, but not impossible. “He’s my friend. I’d like to see him live,” he answered after a soft sigh and a practiced shrug. “Besides that, I made your sister a promise, and I’d like to keep it.”

“Lucy under—”

Arthur shook his head. “Not Lucy.”

Edmund regarded him silently for the span of several breaths, and Arthur wondered how he had ever thought it was Peter’s acceptance he wanted to seek out, regarding what he felt for Susan. After everything he’d just seen, and everything else he already knew of the Pevensies, it couldn’t have been anything but Edmund’s approval he would want—after Susan’s, of course.

Finally, Edmund nodded, just the once. “You know what’ll happen if you hurt her, don’t you?”

“You’ll kill me?” Arthur ventured, honestly a bit surprised. It was, rather, a standard threat.

“No,” he said, with the shake of his head. “Susan will ruin you herself, first. Then, Lucy will find what’s left of you, and you’ll wish it was me, or even Peter, instead.”

Edmund spoke as calmly as one would discuss their supper, as if this were something simple and widely understood. It made Arthur contemplate what it would have been like to have the Pevensies as allies back when he ruled Camelot, because he certainly did not want them for enemies.

When Arthur finally nodded, Edmund turned, dropping his gaze to the quiet fire. He watched the younger Pevensie for a long while, but not once did he look up across the flames to the other man in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's no real importance to the location for this chapter (and the next) beyond the fact that in the asian theater, british forces were mostly in malaya and burma (since they still held control there). there is, eventually, the malayan emergency (1948-1950) in this area, but i decided against changing the historical dates/timeline for this. consider this altercation more of an end-of-war conflict that may also be considered an early precursor to the malayan emergency. i’m sure there were plenty between 1945 and 1948.
> 
> tumblr;; [@angstyloyalties](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)


	17. MALAYA. EARLY SEPTEMBER 1945

Edmund sat stiffly against the wall, one knee pulled up to his chest as he stared at the base of an already low-burning fire. Peter was fine, so long as the stitches held. But it wasn’t Peter who kept him awake. It wasn’t Arthur either, though Edmund wasn’t entirely comfortable around him either. It was only the fact that Peter seemed to like him that Edmund gave him some leeway. Guarded in a way, by what Peter though of him. Susan, too, if he thought about it.

Merlin, on the other hand, had no such protection.

Even the sight of him was too much in this room, forcing Edmund to keep his eyes on the fire, as if it would burn away everything he did not want to address. 

He wanted to be like Lucy and forgive him for hiding the truth.

To be like Susan and be assured in simply knowing magic wasn’t evil on its own.

Like Peter, so he could allow Merlin’s past actions to speak for themselves.

Every part of him wanted to reach out to Merlin. To not feel so unnerved by having him so close and yet so far, all at once. But he did not have Lucy’s blind trust, Susan’s focused logic, or Peter’s clear mind to be able to reach beyond his own guilt and fear.

Edmund had tried in the past few months to reason with himself. There was magic in Narnia that he loved, after all, and if he could rely on that, then, logically, he could at least come to accept Merlin’s. But the harder he tried, the more resounding his refusal became. They were too different. Narnia’s magic was one that saved him and expected nothing of him in return that he did not want to give. It was a magic that granted him his own will and allowed him to earn his own understanding. 

With Merlin, Edmund had no way of knowing what had been done to him, to them. He couldn’t know whether there had been any deception in their actions, their feelings.

Talking to and being with Merlin had felt safe. It had felt real in a way Edmund felt he could trust. But it had not been so different when he first encountered magic in Narnia. The White Witch had been manipulative, using his insecurities to her benefit until she no longer had any use for him. 

Though, he supposed, where the White Witch had continued to utilize her influence, Merlin pulled away himself entirely, effectively granting Edmund the space to grapple with the aftermath of everything on his own. That alone seemed worth something. Edmund just didn’t know if it was enough, and, sitting in this building with Merlin so close, he found it impossible to think. Impossible to know where to go from here.

“Back…”

Edmund turned, immediately alert. “Pete?”

“Need to go back…” His voice was soft and his words muddled, but Edmund had never forgotten this side of him enough to lose the ability to pick out what he said.

“Shit.” Edmund brought his hands to Peter’s face. Too warm. Too clammy. “Peter?”

“Can’t leave. Can’t leave her… Not Nadora…”

Abruptly, the light around him grew, and Edmund shuffled, thrown momentarily, by the increased heat behind him. Then, he saw how pale Peter’s face had grown. Luckily, his fingers worked faster than his mind and were already pulling the bandage free from Peter’s arm. This was no time for hesitation

In the quiet that fell after Arthur and Merlin talked of Susan and Lucy, Merlin turned his attention to the rain outside. It was steady and constant, like the low crackle of the fire at his feet, but the sounds were not distracting enough to keep him from wondering how he could ever have expected anything of his life beyond this. Kings and secrets. Betrayal and pain.

Constant loss was all Merlin ever seemed to have. Arthur, Camelot, family, friends. Then, over the centuries, thousands of familiar faces were taken by time until he didn’t even know who he was anymore. It had been a painstaking process to try and settle into a life with some kind of worth. Waiting for Arthur was all good and well, but hiding his magic, his existence… It drained him to the point he wasn’t sure what use he would be when Arthur did return. Hell, if this night was any example to go off of, Merlin wasn’t any use at all—magic or no magic.

Worst of all, Merlin hadn’t anticipated being afraid to use magic again. Not because Arthur didn’t accept it, or him, but because Edmund didn’t. 

Merlin wondered if this sort of thing was just part of his destiny, if he would always face this sort of guilt and shame, just for who he was, in some vicious cycle, jumping from one king to the next. Arthur. Edmund. Who else?

Letting his eyes shut as the thought filled his mind, Merlin nearly missed the rustle of noise across the fire. Blinking, he looked up to find Edmund turned to his brother.

“Pete?”

“Need to go back…” Peter’s voice was so small, his words running together, it was a miracle Edmund had even stirred. But he was up, bringing his hands to Peter’s face.

“Shit. Peter?” 

Heart speeding at just the tone of Edmund’s voice, Merlin felt himself pulled forward, upright, and without thought to what might offend or not offend, allowed a touch of magic to sink into the fire. 

In the resulting light, Peter looked paler than he had before, sweating. “Can’t leave. Can’t leave her… Not Nadora…”

“She’s not…” Edmund cursed, unfurling the wrap around his arm, and then cursed again.

“What’s going on?” Arthur asked cautiously.

“It’s infected,” Edmund snapped, not bothering to turn back to either of them.

“Merlin, can’t you do something?”

His eyes darted to Peter around Edmund’s shoulder, then back to Arthur. He shook his head. “Nothing he hasn’t alre—”

“I know that,” Arthur interrupted. “I meant, can’t you do something else?”

“I…” He blinked, staring back. 

“Time you stopped hiding, isn’t it? ” Arthur didn’t bother to wait for an answer as he turned toward the two brothers and reached out, daring to take hold of the younger one’s arm. “Edmund.”

Merlin’s heart pounded in his ears as Edmund turned, drowning out not just Arthur’s voice, but also the steady pulse of magic singing in his veins. It wanted out, but even as Arthur advocated for him, Merlin found he could not bring his eyes up to face Edmund. Not fully.

Instead, he addressed the fire still blazing between them. “He’s right about Peter, but I won’t do anything unless you want me to.” 

“Edmund.”

It was only for Peter’s sake that Edmund did not elbow Arthur in the face for catching hold of his arm. The last thing they needed was another injured idiot. Instead, Edmund turned sharply, indifferent, for once, to what he’d left displayed on his face. He was more concerned with the blank look on Merlin’s face and the hollow pit beyond his eyes..

“Peter needs that wound cleaned,” Arthur stated. “And unless you have more than just bandages and a spare needle on you, there isn’t anything else we can do.”

Edmund bit back the desire to hit him for real now, and bit his tongue as he allowed himself to observe Merlin. 

“Just let him try.”

It was the first true look he’d have of the man in months, and his first impression was that everything about it was wrong. 

Merlin didn’t look right, eyes downcast, shoulders turned in. He hadn’t been a particularly loud and outgoing man—at least that Edmund had known—but the lack of conviction in him was unnerving. 

Silence pressed in around them, but still, Edmund said nothing, keeping his eyes on Merlin, waiting. He’d thought often of speaking to Merlin again some day, but he never intended to be the first to extend his hand.

Time burned up between them as they stood in this stalemate, until finally, Merlin’s head ticked up. He still would not look him in the eye, but even at this angle, Edmund could see the glassy sheen over them. It pulled and twisted at something in his chest, but he held firm. Merlin would break first.

And break he did, voice cracking as he finally spoke.

“He’s right about Peter,” he rasped, speaking more to the crackling fire than to Edmund himself. “But I won’t do anything unless you want me to.” 

Edmund said nothing, but neither Arthur nor Merlin pushed him so the silence stretched thin between them. He did not want Merlin to submit to him. He was waiting for something else from him. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, but he _did_ know he only had to wait for it.

 _It won’t be long,_ he thought. Peter needed tending to, and Merlin wouldn’t just let him suffer in pain like this when he could do something about it. At least, the Merlin he knew wouldn’t. 

And he didn’t. 

But when Merlin lifted his head to meet his gaze, Edmund was started by the soft flicker of gold that caught in the center of his eyes. It was the reflection of the fire between them, or something more, perhaps. Whatever it was, it sparked something in Edmund, some raw feeling he couldn’t bring himself to name, and for a second, Edmund’s breath caught and he forgot what he meant to say.

Then the blue grew sharp and bold in the firelight, and Edmund, remembering himself and the situation once more, nodded quickly.

The three of them shuffled immediately after Edmund granted him permission, and Merlin moved closed to Peter, but he paused a moment before reaching for his arm. Caught up in the thought of where he was, who he was with, and what he had to do, Merlin suddenly felt a bit like laughing. Or maybe crying. Something entirely unsuited for the task at hand.

It seemed he would always be destined for this. There would always be a king to save. A king to love. This was the tragedy of his life, stretching back as far as he could remember. Only now, he knew—losing one meant losing both. 

“Merlin?” 

He turned, and Arthur’s expression alone took him back, viciously across the centuries, to the royal tent pitched on the upper ridge between Camelot and Caerleon, their armies standing ready. 

The king had been preparing for battle. Single combat against one of Queen Annis’s men. A mountain of a man, in fact. It had been one of the first true tests he had faced as King of Camelot, but where Merlin had worried, Arthur had been content with the prospect of any outcome. Comforted by the knowledge that, for the first time since being crowned, Arthur had followed his heart and made the right decision, for what he believed in and for what he held dear to him. The moment had sparked the beginning of Arthur’s journey away from expectation and toward peace. Toward the kingdom he had been destined to build. Perhaps, Merlin could do the same and take a step toward a new era for himself. 

He had only ever used his magic for Arthur before, and he’d used it so sparingly in all the years since then that Merlin could hardly claim that magic as his own. But here, in a rundown building in the middle of a jungle half a world away from where he’d been born, Merlin finally understood the burning in his veins and the trial set before him.

Merlin turned back from Arthur and finally took up Peter’s arm, feeling for the pulse of his heart through his veins. It was slow but it was steady, and that was all Merlin needed to remember.

He’d forgotten, in all his years, what, exactly, he was. Son of the earth, the sea, and the sky—Merlin was a part of the magic that flowed through the world. There were things, he knew, that would only ever be a brief part of his history and nothing more; things and people he would lose and never have again no matter how hard he tried to keep them. 

But magic was not one of those things. No matter what he’d sacrificed over the years, no matter what he’d lost, Merlin could not lose the thing that made him who he was.

He followed the heat in Peter’s arm with his magic, settling his hands bracingly around the sewn flesh. A cautious, cool light formed in the space between his own fingers, growing brighter and stronger until it enveloped Peter’s upper arm entirely.

He hadn’t never been particularly adept at healing magic during Arthur’s first life, but after losing him, Merlin had dedicated centuries of his life to learning and practicing medicine properly, both with and without magic. It came in handle now, even if the spells he mumbled were half-forgotten. The words felt foreign and rough against his tongue after so many years, but what his mind could not recall, Merlin’s magic had never lost. 

It answered his call slowly at first and then all at once, calming tender muscle to draw out the heat and infection before knitting together broken skin quickly, as though there was nothing else to it. 

When Merlin felt the last of the wound seal, he reined it all back in, pulling on the magic that lingered in Peter’s arm. It rushed through him and made him unsteady, but it was his.

It was his, and with it, Merlin could face whatever came next.

Watching Merlin use magic was unlike anything Edmund had expected. He’d thought the heat in the room would dissipate, that he would feel frozen—whether by fear or worry or just the icy feel of magic itself.

But there was no chill washing over him. 

There was no frigid pain.

Instead, a familiar warmth filled the small space of the room the moment Merlin’s eyes took on a bright, golden hue. Brighter than the mere flicker Edmund had seen before, and indicative of so much more than he could properly understand. But perhaps that was the truth of it, with Merlin. Everything he did was a surprise. Why wouldn’t his magic be the same?

Edmund had been wrong to assume Merlin’s magic would be cold. Everything Edmund had ever known about the man had been blazing hot—all encompassing. His magic was no different, and Edmund felt wrapped up in it, almost as though the magic was meant for him as much as it was Peter. A magic that kept him safe. A magic that kept him warm. Edmund had a knack for guessing how events would play out. He’d made a life of it, before, but this? This he couldn’t have expected, no matter how welcoming and relieving it was.

Edmund turned to Arthur, briefly, and was surprised to find he looked similarly shocked. Like he hadn’t been sure what would happen either. Then, Edmund remembered what Merlin had said months ago about the Once and Future King.

The Arthur of legend had not grown up with a wizened old magician advisor as was often the case in the stories Edmund had read. Instead, he had grown up during a time when magic was banned in his kingdom. Punishable by death. And in all the time Merlin had been by his side, Arthur had never once known of his magic. Merlin had lied to him, just as he had lied to Edmund. Kept the truth hidden, for the sake of a destiny and a future he believed Arthur would bring. 

Perhaps this was a first for Arthur, too. 

When Edmund turned back, Peter’s arm was glowing beneath Merlin’s hands, but he was more fascinated by the subtle movement of the man’s lips. A spell of sorts, or some other necessity, perhaps. Edmund didn’t know. But he thought, maybe he would want to. Maybe Merlin would tell him, if he asked.

The man swayed a bit when the light beneath his hands and the glow of his eyes began to fade, and both Arthur and Edmund reached out to steady him. 

“Merlin?” Arthur asked.

“Sorry,” he murmured back, fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. “Couldn’t… help the scar.”

Edmund glanced over. Peter’s cut was healed over, looking almost as though nothing happened, except for the faint pink line which would, in time, fade to white and the dark crosses that ran down its length. The stitches, Edmund realized.

Merlin slumped, suddenly, and Edmund found his grip on him tightening of its own accord, his eyes drawn back to the man. Everything beneath his fingers felt so… alive, it was startling to see Merlin look the opposite, eyes drifting shut.

“Jus’tired,” he slurred. “Haven’t…done that much in years.”

“Well that’s just like you, isn’t it?” Arthur muttered. “Show off.”

Merlin gave his friend a weary smile, before nodding off, and both Edmund and Arthur set him carefully to the dirt floor. With both him and Peter properly situated, the pair settled down themselves. Edmund took to staring at the fire, tracking sparks in various intervals as the night quieted around them.

A short while later, Arthur commented, “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Merlin. I’ve… I’ve seen him bring lightning down from the sky and take entire battlefields full of knights out with his magic. But this… I’ve never seen him look so exhausted.”

Edmund’s brows knit together. So Arthur _had_ seen Merlin use his magic before. He looked over at the man, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest for a few moments before answering quietly. “Maybe it’s different, healing someone.”

“Maybe.”

Edmund supposed there was nothing they could do but speculate at this point. Merlin would know, but he was in no position to explain it to them now. 

A part of him was bitter, angry at their situation. He had so many questions—about Merlin, his magic, and everything that the pair of them had never said—but there wasn’t anyone to answer them. Just Arthur, who, from Merlin’s stories, had been the most oblivious to Merlin’s magic of everyone in Camelot.

And yet… Edmund frowned. Arthur had mentioned having seen Merlin use magic before, so he had to know something, right?

“Arthur?”

The man turned to face him, slowly. Edmund wondered if he thought, perhaps, Merlin might disappear if he looked away for long enough. Considering his current state of unconsciousness, Edmund wasn’t so sure they had anything to worry about.

“How did you find out?”

“About his magic?”

Edmund nodded. “He never talked around that.”

“No,” Arthur scoffed. “I suppose he wouldn’t.”

He was quiet for a long time, but by this point, Edmund felt he understood the man just well enough to know that they were not so different. Men of few words, perhaps, but men of their word. He would speak when he was ready, and Edmund could trust what he said. 

“I think I knew from the beginning. Had an idea of it, anyways,” he sighed, nudging the end of a wooden plank with his foot to push it further into the base of the fire. “Merlin was different from everyone else, right from the start. He called me out, often. Hardly ever thought twice about shouting whatever nonsense he felt like, without care for proper decorum. And he was, by far, the worst servant I’d ever had. In all of Camelot, probably.”

Arthur chuckled amusingly, and Edmund tucked his fingers tighter into the palms of his hands at the sound, too aware of the emotions that lay beneath it. Fondness. Care. Friendship. Love.

“Looking back, it seems obvious that he had magic. He always had these… funny feelings, he’d call them. I though he was an idiot, but he was always there when you needed him. Showing up to save the day, with just the right plan, at just the right time. He was always there. For Camelot, for _me_.” Arthur shook his head, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, but knew no other truth. “Saved my life more times that I will likely ever know, to be honest. I’m a bit afraid to ask how often that truly was, even now.”

“But when did you _know_?”

He looked over at Merlin before answering, and Edmund felt compelled to do the same. For a moment, he was caught up in following the shallow rise and fall of Merlin’s chest as he slept. But it reminded him too much of their nights together, and he forced himself to turn back to the fire. 

“Officially? Not long before the end. I always felt there was something about him I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I just didn’t want to let myself see him for who he was.”

Edmund didn’t turn, didn’t pry, but neither were necessary. Arthur would tell him, not because he’d asked but because Arthur himself was desperate to say it. He was a thousand years too late for this—an acknowledgement of everything they were, all they weren’t, and what they could have been—and Merlin wasn’t even conscious to hear it, but even Edmund knew it was time.

“He was someone I could rely on, magic or no magic. As much as any of my knights. More, perhaps. He knew what I was capable of, knew what I needed and what I would regret. He kept me honest, and he stood by me to the end, forgave me even before I’d apologized, even when I _couldn’t_ apologize, or do anything more to change the state of the kingdom. He was… he was the greatest friend I ever had.”

He let Arthur’s words settle, more than capable of seeing exactly the man he described. It was a bit embarrassing really. Edmund had been so caught up in how, time and time again, magic seemed to lead him to ruin, that he’d forgotten it was magic that saved him too. 

“There’s something else,” Arthur said after some time, prompting Edmund to lift his head and face him. “Something else you should know about him, if you haven’t already gathered as much by yourself.”

“What’s that?”

“He and I were bound by destiny and fate. Powers outside our control. Trust me, if I could, I’d have a word with them about the things they’ve had us endure. But you shouldn’t worry. There was no magic in your finding him, or him finding you. He wouldn’t have… He would never do that, and for months now, he’s been agonizing over the possibility that you might think he would.”

“I… How did…” Edmund blinked, and then blinked again. He hadn’t thought Merlin had said anything. 

“He didn’t say anything,” Arthur confirmed, as though Edmund had spoken aloud. “I just figured if you were anything like me, you might have wondered.”

“But…”

“I might have missed his magic, but I’m not completely blind,” Arthur countered, a light smile on his face. “Besides, Merlin hasn’t changed so much that I can’t tell when he’s worried about someone he loves.”

Edmund flushed and turned away, hoping desperately that the fire was bright enough to blame. Either that or simply not bright enough for Arthur to even notice in the first place.

“I don’t have to tell you what happens if you hurt him, right?”

He looked up abruptly, stunned for a moment before a laugh escaped him, short and real and unexpected. “Last I checked, Merlin hasn’t got any family to make me regret it, should anything happen.”

“No. No family left. Just me,” Arthur stated simply, though a look passed over his eyes that Edmund couldn’t attribute to the flickering flames—a quick, solemn flash of guilt, and then a firm determination woven into grinning eyes. “And just as soon as we’re back home, I’m going to have him tell me where the hell my sword is. So don’t go thinking you have no one to answer to.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Excalibur? It’s real?”

“I never knew it by that name,” Arthur confessed. “Never named it, actually. But I suppose it would fit.”

He shook his head, a sword’s name was important. But still, Edmund felt a tugging at the corner of his lips that was hard to deny. “If it’s a sword fight you want, I’d be happy to give you one, all feelings spared. So long as you do me a favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, the hardest part of this whole thing was balancing the whole name vs pronoun thing. it's rough when all the characters are male and three are kings, esp cause in this case, they're all half idiots. there's a lot going on for these guys after this chapter, but we're winding down really. just a few more things for them all to address :)
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)


	18. FINCHLEY/WALES. LATE OCTOBER 1945

Susan and Lucy stayed another several weeks in Oxford before moving back to Finchley. It was, as most of Lucy’s decisions were, spontaneous. But Susan knew there was more to the move than her sister was letting on. 

She still refused to sleep in her room, even after Susan had gone through and boxed up the various photos and illustrations. She’d done it for the entire flat, but it hadn’t made a difference.

Truthfully, Susan hadn’t believed it would. Their own house in Finchley had felt similarly stifling to her once. A place that, once Susan was there alone, screamed too loudly of the place it was not. Even when Lucy was still with her, before going off to join the war, it hadn’t been so loud. 

In retrospect, it was so easy to see how different such a trial could be with family. How much easier it all was.

“Do you think mum will ever come back from Aunt Alberta’s?” Lucy asked as they turned down their street, each carrying two suitcases full.

Susan thought about it for a moment. But as much as a part of her wanted to see her mother home again, she didn’t think it would happen. Their mother had other memories she was likely to be running from, and Susan couldn’t find it in herself to rush the woman to come home when she’d taken so long herself. “We may have better luck planning a visit ourselves.”

Coming up on their house, though, they noticed the porch light was on, and they exchanged a look with one another before picking up the pace.

“Mum?” Lucy called as she dropped her suitcases unceremoniously by the door. “Are you home?”

She disappeared down the hall and into the kitchen to loop back around while Susan set her own things down and shut the door. 

“Lucy?”

Peter’s voice was not the one Susan had expected to hear, but she looked up the stairs at him when he appeared. “Peter! I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“I could say the same of you,” he replied, descending to meet her.

“Peter!”

He grunted, as though he hadn’t fully anticipated Lucy’s rushing hug, but he was quick to wrap his arms around their younger sister with soft smile. “Hello, Lu.”

“You’re home!”

“I am,” he confirmed with a laugh. “How about we go sit?”

Lucy took the invitation to detach herself from Peter with a bit of a sheepish smile, and then disappeared. A moment later, as she turned to the sitting room with Peter, Susan could hear the strike of matches in the kitchen. 

“When do you go back?” she asked.

Peter shook his head. “I won’t be. I, er… ran into Edmund, actually, and he told me I ought to be home.”

“Edmund? But I thought he was—"

“It’s a long story, and I suspect Lucy should hear it, too. But what about you? I thought you were in America?”

She smiled as well, just a bit. “Edmund got to me as well.”

He stared for a moment, and then chuckled. “Damn, sneaky little ba—"

Susan hit him in the arm. “Peter!”

“What? It’s true!”

She rolled her eyes, but sighed, settling back in the sofa beside him. Lucy was humming in the kitchen, and surprisingly, Susan felt quite at home. Comfortable for the first time in months. Years, perhaps.

When Lucy came out with the tea, she seemed similarly content. “Now all we need is for Ed to get back, and we’ll all be home again.

“I’m not sure when he’ll be back,” Peter said.

“But you said you saw him?”

“What?” Lucy paused, looking up as she set the tray down. “You saw him?”

Peter nodded. “About six weeks ago. Entirely by chance. Though it was probably for the best he was there.”

“What happened?”

“We were scouting, covering a base to see if there was anything useful. There wasn’t, but the place wasn’t quite as abandoned as we’d been told. Without Edmund and his partner, I’m not sure we would have made it.”

“We? Were Arthur and Merlin with you then?”

Peter nodded. “They’re both fine, as far as I’m aware.”

“And Edmund? Is he alright?”

“Besides being a bit put off with me, I think he’s fine.”

“What happened?”

Peter reached up to scratch his head, cheeks turning a faint pink. 

Susan’s brows knitted, “Peter, why’d Ed tell you to come home?”

“Well…”

Lucy fixed him with a sharp look and asked clearly, “What did you do?” 

“They threw a machete at him, what was I supposed to do? Let it hit him?”

“A machete?” Susan exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you took it instead!”

“Peter.” Lucy’s voice had a stony quality to it, hard and sharp in all the ways Susan never considered her sister to be. “Let me see.”

He had the decency to duck his head a bit, at least. 

The pale white scar curved along most of his upper arm, from the back of his elbow around the inside of his arm to the front of his bicep. More healed than it should be, after this short a period of time. But more curious were the darker crosses along the line, faint but noticeable from the right angles. 

“Peter… Are these stitches?”

“Ed did those. I think it would have been fine if infection hadn’t started to set in—I don’t think that machete was all that clean, unfortunately—but we didn’t have enough supplies. So, Merlin healed it.”

“Merlin did?” Susan asked.

Peter nodded.

“You mean… with his magic?”

He nodded again. 

“And… Edmund let him?” Lucy pushed.

“From what Arthur said, I don’t think there was a fight.”

Lucy frowned, but said no more. Whatever she was contemplating, it apparently wasn’t ready to be said.

“So, Edmund just told you to come home, and now you’re home?” Susan asked, trying to get them back on track.

“That’s, uh… a bit more complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it, then.”

“Well, Edmund wasn’t actually there when I woke up. Apparently, he had his own mission to get back to, but I suppose they talked, him and Arthur, because Arthur made it very clear that Edmund wanted me home, and that I was in no condition to argue with him.”

“But he wasn’t there.”

“No, he wasn’t. But he apparently told Arthur that if I began to argue, he was supposed to remind me of the promise I made to him at the port in Calormen. And that if our positions were reversed, I’d expect the same of him.”

“Oh.”

Susan sighed. The most she or Lucy knew of that incident was what Peter and Edmund told them, piece by piece over the years. It still wasn’t enough to put a full picture together, but neither she nor Lucy pried into it now. There were some stories each of them kept to themselves. 

“So, Arthur and Merlin?” Lucy asked, after a rather lengthy sip of her tea. “Are they still…”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. I put my papers in as soon as we got back to a proper base. It took them awhile to process; I only got home earlier this week. Arthur and Merlin… we talked a bit about it, but, um…” He rubbed his chin lightly. “I’m not sure where they are at the moment. In fact, I’ve a letter for you, Su. Let me—”

“Later, Peter,” she said, catching his hand.

“Are you sure? It’s just upstairs.”

She nodded. If it was from Arthur, she had a good idea of what it said already. 

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” she confirmed with a slight smile. 

Lucy took the moment to clear her throat. “Speaking of letters, I heard from the Professor recently.”

“Professor Kirke?”

“Is he alright?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Lucy reassured. “We’ve kept in touch, and he mentioned wanting to get together for supper some time, for the holidays. Now that the war’s over, he thought it might be easier. I think he said Polly would try to come, too.”

“That sounds great! I’d love to see the old manor again.”

“I suspect it’s more or less the same, Peter,” Susan teased. She missed the grand house herself. “But I do have a question.”

Lucy tilted her head.

“What are we to do about Edmund?”

Edmund had been gone when Arthur woke that next morning, as he’d said he would be, but the younger Pevensie’s presence lingered long after they left the compound and rejoined their unit a bit worse for wear—though alive and together, even if only for a while longer. 

When Edmund first asked him to relay a message to Peter, Arthur had wanted to laugh. But the younger man’s expression had been stony enough for him to reconsider. Peter’s own reaction had been unexpected. Arthur hadn’t thought him to be the type to bend to anyone’s will, but Peter accepted his brother’s request without question, putting in his papers to go home as soon as he found the proper channels from their base. 

It was only now, a few days after Peter’s actual departure, that Arthur realized just how out of depth he was, when it came to Edmund. 

Between his message for Peter and the silence Merlin took up whenever his name came up, Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of the younger Pevensie. 

Merlin didn’t talk about him, he’d barely even talked  _ to _ him, in the jungle. And Arthur hadn’t just felt the tension between them as they stood by Peter, he’d seen it. But that was all he knew. Arthur couldn’t get Merlin to explain anything else. Even if he seemed more open to sharing everything else, now. 

Camelot, his magic, the years Merlin spent alone. It came slowly and they weren’t quite back to their old selves, but they certainly felt more at ease around each other now, less unsure of what they were meant to be to and with one another.

It was how Arthur knew something was bothering Merlin now, as they sat in the far booth of a dimly lit pub. He’d yet to touch the pint in front of him, though it had been several minutes now.

“Merlin?”

When he didn’t reply, Arthur tried again, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Huh?” Merlin blinked as if finally registering where he was.

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about,” Arthur clarified. “You’ve been staring into nothing for the past ten minutes.”

“Oh. I was just… thinking about the lake.”

Arthur frowned. “What about it?

“I was thinking we should go back there soon.”

“What for?”

He wasn’t opposed to the idea, in all honesty. It was the closest he would get to the life he had lived before, and now that Merlin was with him, it felt right to make the trip. 

“I have some questions I’d like answered. And a few things you should probably have.”

“Things?”

Merlin nodded, but said little more. It was moments like this when Arthur was sharply reminded of how annoying he could be. 

“Guess we’ll have to put our papers in then?”

“Oh, I already did.”

“You what?” he asked, flustered. “When?”

“Not long after Peter put his in.”

Arthur stared then, eyeing the slight lift to the corner of Merlin’s lips as he pulled the glass closer to him. Arthur wanted to strangle him, and yet, couldn’t bring himself to do more than roll his eyes. 

They were back in England within the week, though not anywhere that Arthur himself had been before—in this lifetime at least. Arthur’s only clue to where, exactly, they’d find the lake was an offhand remark that they were headed northwest after boarding a train in Brighton. Merlin kept the rest to himself, as though it were all meant to be a surprise.

In a way, it was. 

The lake wasn’t what Arthur had remembered. None of the land was, really. There were some moments when he caught sight of a particular hilly or mountainous view that Arthur thought he might recognize a name for where they were, but then he would spot a house and suddenly, he wouldn’t have any idea where they were.

The lake itself had diminished to almost nothing. A vast open field, with nothing but a pond farther in, but the pair of them stopped not far beyond the treeline. 

“Why’re we stopping?”

“Because, this is the edge of the lake,” Merlin said, setting down his bag and proceeding to take off his shoes. There was no one else around, so Arthur didn’t find the image quite so silly as he could have, but it was still… odd.

“Merlin, there isn’t actually a lake here. The water’s not for another…” Arthur trailed off at the look he received.

“The lake is magic, Arthur. Just trust me, alright?”

He kept his mouth shut then and stood back, content to watch as Merlin stood, barefoot in the grass, just a few yards away. He didn’t seem to move, and Arthur didn’t feel any magic, the way he had when Merlin healed Peter, but before long, the scenery around them began to change.

The field, still green despite the cold season, shifted in a wind Arthur could not feel, growing darker and deeper green until it changed entirely. Not green and swaying, but deep and dark, awash in water. 

When he turned back to look, Merlin was standing calf-deep in water, and before Merlin stood a woman, or rather, a shimmering light in the shape of a woman. Arthur couldn’t tell from where he stood, but they seemed in conversation for the moment, heads bowed toward one another.

Tentatively, Arthur moved forward. The ground beneath his feet was as it was before, until he reached Merlin’s belongings, placed, as he’d claimed, at the edge of the lake. Without thinking too hard about it, Arthur stripped off his own shoes and socks and waded into the water himself, shocked to find it cool and calm against his skin. Strangely tingly, too.

He paused, not far behind Merlin, still unsure of who the woman was in front of him, though she looked vaguely familiar.

“…long time.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Merlin. I’m just glad you haven’t forgotten me, and that you’ve found your king.”

She turned to him then, announcing him without preamble. “Hello, Arthur.”

He managed to nod in response, but little more. He was still trying to place her face, to remember who she was.

“Freya?”

She turned back to Merlin, attentive, and despite her shimmering appearance, Arthur swore her hair was meant to be brown, and her eyes quite dark as well. 

“Why now? After everything. Why is Arthur back now?”

“It is as foretold. Arthur is the Once and Future King, fated to return at Albion’s greatest need.”

“But Albion is gone. It fell a long time ago.”

Freya’s face softened as she looked at him, “The Kingdom fell, but the whole of Albion did not disappear with the land. Not entirely.”

“But…” 

“Arthur.”

He blinked, surprised to be addressed at all. “Yes?”

“You were destined to bring about the great land of Albion in which magic could be free once more. A place for those with magic and those without to exist together in peace? Is this not what was foretold?”

Arthur hesitated. Truthfully, he’d never actually heard the prophecy in full before, not when he was still King. But it seemed more or less accurate, given what he’d read over the years. 

“Yes?”

She turned back to Merlin, satisfied. “And, Emrys. Are you not a creature of magic?”

“I am, but…”

“Have you not existed here, in a state with and without magic?”

“I don’t understand…”

Arthur blinked, slowly but surely putting the pieces together. “It’s you.”

“What?” Merlin turned.

“You. You’re what’s left of Albion,” Arthur clarified, looking up at him. He’d been right, weeks ago, in the jungle, thinking that whatever he was supposed to help fix, was Merlin. 

“I still don’t… how can I…” Merlin looked from Arthur to Freya, and back again, staring at him for a long while before he finally turned back to Freya again. “He came for me?”

“Magic had all but left this world. Arthur returned to ensure it would not be lost. That  _ you _ would not be lost.”

Arthur smiled lightly. “If you think about it, Merlin, it was about time. Don’t you think?”

Merlin shot him a look, and just as he turned back, Arthur caught the flash of his eyes. It was too late—his legs were pulled from beneath him and he fell back into the water.

“What was that for?” he sputtered, wiping water from his face as he looked up.

“About time? About time?!”

Arthur’s face softened at his tone and let himself sag, his weight falling back on his arms.

“Do you have any idea what it was like, waiting for you?” Merlin huffed.

Arthur watched his face ripple with something he couldn’t place—guilt, pain, something—but for once, he knew what to say. “All those years. All those times you saved my life. It’s long past time that you were recognized for everything you did. Isn’t it?”

Merlin’s shoulders dropped, and he exhaled slowly before speaking. “You know that’s not why I did it.”

“I know, but you deserve to be saved too, you know. You’re worth that much, at least.”

Merlin shook his head, but Arthur knew he’d gotten through to him. It was in the way he didn’t argue, and in the way he held out a hand to help Arthur up. That was who Merlin was. Too forgiving of everyone but himself.

“Tread carefully, Merlin,” Freya called. “The call of your magic will stir even the oldest threats from their resting places”

“I… What do you… when” He didn’t seem able to string the words together, but it was clear from the subtle shake of her head that Freya understood what he wanted. 

“Take heart, Emrys. There is still time enough before it all.”

Merlin sighed, and it seemed that all the strength in his body left with that breath, causing him to drop to his knees into the water with no regard for his clothes. Arthur reached out and nearly knelt beside him, the shake of his shoulders was so violent. But he realized it wasn’t some new hurt wracking Merlin’s body. Instead, an unexpected and overwhelming relief was forcing itself free through sudden tears and murmured acknowledgement. 

Merlin wasn’t happy, exactly, but Freya’s words seemed to give him some sense of comfort, regardless.

Arthur relaxed and looked up to find Freya watching. 

“Take care of each other. You are meant for something larger than yourselves. In this time just as before.” 

Merlin wiped at his face, though it didn’t seem to help much. “If it’s any more of this destiny nonsense, I might have to have a word or two with the Triple Goddess.”

It was a joke, Arthur knew it was, just from the way he said it. But Freya shook her head solemnly.

“Be careful of your magic now, Merlin.” 

Merlin nodded, the gesture shallow but sincere, and then Freya disappeared. Standing in the water one moment, and gone the next. With her departure, the water began to recede around them, shifting slowly back to the dull grassy field it had been before. Arthur, watching it all change before him, found himself latching onto the one thing he still couldn’t properly place.

“Merlin?”

“Arthur.”

“Who is she?”

“Freya? She’s the Lady of the Lake.”

“No, I mean who is she to you? To us? She seemed… familiar.”

Merlin didn’t answer for some time, focusing on gathering his things. But when he did, there was a hint of sorrow in his voice. It matched the look he got on his face whenever Edmund had been mentioned in recent weeks. 

“She was just a girl who had something terrible done to her for something outside her control.”

There was more to uncover here, but with Merlin, Arthur got the feeling there would  _ always _ be more to learn. Secrets and stories he hadn’t yet revealed of their first lives. It was frustrating for Arthur, to know and yet not know the details. He remembered everything of the king he’d once been, but there was still so much he didn’t understand. Things only Merlin could explain to him.

And that was nothing to say of all that had come after. While he was gone.

“Will you tell me about her, sometime?” he asked, the volume of his voice catching in his throat as the words passed through. It was awkward and vulnerable, this request. For the both of them.

Merlin’s expression was one of open surprise, as though he’d never expected quite this level of interest from Arthur. It stung, but he stayed steady. Instead of taking it back, he swallowed, and held out until Merlin, drawing his lips together carefully once more, finally nodded. 

“Come on, clotpole,” he said with that weary smile of his, not quite reaching his eyes but still pulling at the dimples in his cheeks. “Let’s go get your sword.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've read [a point of pride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003919), you'll know what peter's referencing in this chapter. if not, feel free to take a look! 
> 
> also, if arthur and merlin's interaction in this chapter feels a little unstable and back-and-forth, please note that was sort of intentional. they still have a lot to work through, both individually and together, but it's not like they can ignore the fact that they were incredibly close once, you know? anywho, they've got some time to figure out a proper balance for themselves. likely just in time for the chaos i'm planning for the sequel fic ;)
> 
> [my tumblr](https://angstyloyalties.tumblr.com)


	19. FINCHLEY. EARLY NOVEMBER 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so much later than usual today. got super sidetracked by work and then got swept away with the rest of my day. but it's here now!

It took Susan several days to get around to Arthur’s letter. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to read it. She did. She just also had a feeling she knew exactly what he’d written. If it had come in the post, separately, as all the others had, she might have been less certain. But that the letter came with Peter, she knew. 

He was delivering on his promise, and some part of her wondered if that would be the end of it all. Peter hadn’t been in touch with them since he’d left, and none of them had any been given indication that either Arthur or Merlin would engage with the Pevensie household again. 

She hoped they would. She knew Peter and Lucy hoped so too, if for very different reasons.

The truth was, Edmund had been right in his letter. Not only about the fact that she’d been scared and had hidden parts of herself away, even from herself. But also about what it would feel like when the truth of herself called. 

It was easier to see in retrospect, but perhaps Susan had known all along, because she hadn’t let herself hide when she wrote to Arthur. The Susan who wrote to him was every bit the queen she had always been, and the woman still trying to make sense of who she was supposed to be. Every part of herself she’d been so desperate to forget forced its way onto the page. Enough that she knew now she wasn’t trying to forget at all. She just wanted to remember without being hurt. 

Somehow, through the various facts she’d learned of him, and of herself, Susan had gotten something more than what she’d looked for. She’d found someone who understood her when she didn’t understand herself. And as much as she knew it was highly illogical, that they barely knew one another, Susan knew she’d fallen for him, even if it didn’t feel quite like falling at all. It was more like walking into a house and knowing, all the way down to her soul, that she was home. 

Perhaps she hadn’t lied to Edmund after all. Perhaps she had found the start of something worthwhile—it just wasn’t with Malcolm, or the version of her that had been with him. 

Her almost beginning had been with Arthur. A spring worth surviving for. A peace worth hoping for. His letter, like all the others, still held that feeling for her. No matter that it was briefer than the rest, or even the last.

_ Susan, _

_ I send this letter with your brother for two reasons.  _

_ First, I am not sure where to reach you. _

_ Second, in seeing him again, know that my promise to you has been kept. I hope that his being home brings you a bit of peace. _

_ Take care, and be well. _

_ Arthur _

It was nothing she did not already know, and all she had logically expected of Arthur, after everything. Still, she sat with it for far longer than she had intended. Not reaching for a pen, but simply sitting. The letter had not come through the post, but through Peter. She had no way to know where Arthur would be. 

A part of her wished she knew. But the rest of her was glad not to. It left a greater possibility out there for her to hope.

She didn’t deserve to, for how far out of her way she’d gone to avoid him in the short time before she’d left for America. But she’d been scared then. Terrified of what she might say or admit if they crossed paths for too long. It wasn’t until now that she realized that it was only herself she’d been afraid of. 

Truth was, Susan had adored being known in the way Arthur had known her. Enough, at least, to draw her out. There was plenty left of her that would surprise him, she was certain of it. In time, she hoped she might have the chance to do just that. But that he’d known her at all, even just that bit. It was encouraging. 

She’d been visible to him even behind a mask. He had seen the part of her she hadn’t intended to show, the part of her that she had hidden behind even from herself, and the part of her that she hoped she could hold on to as she continued to grow. And he’d managed to do it having seen her mind before all else. 

It was the kind of intimacy she had craved in Narnia. The kind of connection she’d never quite found with any of her suitors, no matter how long the queue for her hand had become. But none of them had been what she’d wanted. A man who would fight for her country and protect her people with the same abandon as she and her siblings did.

She hadn’t needed a partner of royal heritage or of noble blood. Susan had been gifted her titles and status; she felt she had every right to gift the same to someone who might prove themself her equal in more than just stature. And yet, here she had a man who was a king. Who had fought dragons and magic and armies and led a kingdom of his own. Who had paid the heaviest price in protecting what was his. Just like her.

It was ironic that she had to wait until now, until she was here and not in Narnia to find what had eluded her for so long. A man whose heart matched her own, who would not balk at her strengths or exploit her weaknesses.

Even Caspian had failed in this, though it was not through any fault of his own. Time had turned her into someone unattainable when they had met. A legend impossible to live up to, as though she had become a star, caught in the sky far beyond his reach, just as Caspian was to her now.

She and Arthur would meet again. She knew it to be true. Because they were not star-crossed or ill-timed. If they were stars at all, they were stars at the edge of two neighboring galaxies—not quite touching but adjacent still, falling through the night by the light of each other’s trailing stardust. 

But she did not want to be a star. 

Susan was much more content to remain as she was, on the ground where she could take root and flourish again.

“I still can’t believe you brought it with you.”

Arthur looked up over his shoulder at the canvas strapped to his back. His sword was heavier than he remembered it being, but he had also never carried the weight of it across his back before.

“Well it’s not as though I had any place to leave it. Need I remind you we came straight from the lake?”

“No, we came from the cottage by the lake, where you absolutely could have left it.”

“And wait for someone to steal it? No, thank you.”

“The only person who knows about the place is me!”

Arthur only shook his head. Truthfully, he kept the sword with him for the same reason he kept the sigil Merlin had held onto for him, and his signet ring. They were the only pieces of his past he could tangibly hold. 

He had considered bringing the cloak with him too, but Merlin confessed at the last minute that it was not, in fact, Arthur’s, but Gwaine’s, and it felt strange for him to take what was not his. Apparently, Arthur’s own armor and cloak were lost to Avalon and despite his attachment to them, he had no intention of returning there anytime soon. 

“If we could have just stopped in Manchester…”

“Stopped in Manchester? Arthur, that would have taken us at least two days out of our way. I thought you wanted to get to Finchley as soon as possible?”

“No, you wanted to get to Finchley as soon as possible. I wanted to stop in Manchester, grab a change of clothes, and perhaps, not have to carry a thousand-year-old sword strapped across my back because someone didn’t think to keep a sword belt around.”

“Oh, well excuse me for not keeping your entire wardrobe,” he scoffed. “I should have realized you would be this way.”

“What way is that? I only want to be presentable.”

“Presentable?” Merlin laughed. “Someone’s nervous, I see.”

“Why would I be nervous?”

“I don’t know, why  _ would  _ you be nervous?”

It was a good question, and one Arthur thought to answer honestly, for once. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it. He still felt it was too soon to bring matters of the heart into the mildly comfortable state of being he’d reached with Merlin. Not yet anyway.

He’d received one letter in the short few weeks since they parted ways with Peter, saying that he’d made it home and delivered the letter to Susan as requested. And as much as Arthur had questions about how Peter’s letter reached them—he expected it had something to do with Merlin—Arthur also had questions about what Peter had said.

As far as they had both last been aware, Susan wasn’t even on this side of the ocean anymore. The idea that Peter could have sent Arthur’s letter across the ocean to America with enough time to then somehow get in touch with him to confirm it had been received… Well, the timing didn’t add up, which only meant one of two things. Either Peter was being overly kind in confirming the delivery of the letter—which Arthur doubted—or, Susan was not in America at all. 

He’d yet to share any of this information with Merlin, because the last thing he needed was to make things more awkward between them. Or worse, to be purposefully riled up about his feelings. If he were to guess, the latter was more likely given Merlin’s current mood, but just because it was the more preferred outcome didn’t mean Arthur actually wanted it.

“No reason,” he said, eventually.

“Are you sure?” Merlin asked, lips just slightly curved in that amused way of his. “Because if I were a guessing man, I’d guess you’re worried about Susan. Except, she’s in America, isn’t she? And if tha—”

“Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor will you?”

“Shut up?”

“Got it in one.”

They reached the Pevensie house late in the afternoon, and surprisingly, even just seeing it calmed him a bit. Despite their last stay in the modest home, it was someplace familiar. Someplace safe. 

“Arthur?”

He came back to himself, to realize Merlin was looking back at him. He had stopped at the end of the walkway. 

“You coming?”

“Right.”

Merlin shook his head, but waited for him to catch up before knocking heavily on the door—two short taps, a short pause, and then two more short taps. Arthur didn’t understand until he heard Lucy’s voice from inside, announcing in her bright singing voice that she would get the door.

When it opened, Merlin’s face lit up, and though Arthur thought it was brilliant, Lucy’s excitement far outshined it. For the first time, he saw what Merlin had meant about certain people having a kind of light. It was hard to miss with Lucy.

“Merlin!”

Arthur wasn’t quite sure who enveloped who in their hug until he saw Merlin spin Lucy part way around the doorstep, her feet kicked up into the air.

“Hello, Lucy,” he greeted, once she was back onto the porch.

She grinned up at him. “Arthur! Would you like to come in and sit? You look a bit like you might fall over.”

Merlin snickered and, before Arthur could even contemplate a response, promptly turned Lucy by the shoulders to march her inside. “Come on, Arthur. We shouldn’t let in all the cold.”

Inside, Peter stood waiting, leaned against the stairwell. “Well, this is a surprise. Although, I didn’t think it’d take you quite this long.”

“We took a bit of a trip,” Merlin explained, grinning. “Had to get someone his sword.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and briefly considered pointing out that the trip was just as fruitful for Merlin as it had been for him. Then he realized that Peter had been expecting them. 

He looked from one to the other and sighed. From the look on Merlin’s face, they’d discussed it all long before Peter had been discharged. 

“Is that it?” Peter asked with a nod. A curious, almost giddy look was on his face, not unlike the one Arthur had seen with Edmund..

He nodded, slipping the sword off his back. He’d wanted his usual sheath, but leather apparently did not keep up the way metal did. Particularly not magicked steel. 

“Can I?”

“Not in the house, Peter.” Lucy warned, before tugging Merlin through the door to the sitting room. “You know the rules.”

Arthur chuckled but offered him the sword. “After you.”

Peter took the hilt and made his way farther down the hallway and through the kitchen. Arthur followed him that far and then watched him slip through to the back yard, unwrapping the woven canvas slowly. 

He was careful with it, but Peter’s excitement was palpable. Arthur had been much the same when he first got it back in his hands. He hadn’t had much experience with swords in this life, but the turns and strikes came easily to him. He spent hours by the cottage just the other night with it, until Merlin finally had to pull the sword from his hands to get him to quit for the evening. Arthur’s arms were still a bit sore, unused to the movements.

“All you boys are the same.”

Arthur jumped and turned at the voice. 

“Really, you brought him a sword?” she asked, a slight lift in her tone.

Susan looked different, somehow, but not in a way he didn’t like. He’d considered her beautiful from the moment he’d first seen her. Someone he felt he’d never quite get tired of looking at. But there was less of a sharpness to her now—her make-up softer, her smile less hidden, and her eyes brighter. She wasn’t even looking at him and still, Arthur could see the change in her. It made her brighter. More captivating, if it were possible. 

“I… I, uh, well…” Arthur stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Not exactly. I just… I didn’t want to leave it.”

She glanced down, but it was too late. Her lips twitched and then smoothed out into a gentle smile. There was an ease to her movements he hadn’t known before. A near carelessness, even—one that seemed out of place from what he’d known, and yet, still entirely appropriate. 

Susan turned to him with a full smile, bright and unburdened in her amusement. And damn it all if she wasn’t completely beautiful. 

Arthur didn’t know what to say, but after a moment, Susan saved him.

“He’ll be out there all day, now,” she commented with a slight chuckle. “Though, I suppose I should be glad it’s not Edmund.”

Reminded, again, of the way his dark eyes had lit up at the mention of a sword fight, Arthur managed to pull his thoughts together enough to ask, “Why’s that?”

“You’d never get it back.”

Something in her response—so simple and clear, she made it seem obvious—pulled a laugh from him, finally unraveling the knot that had twisted in his gut. “Well then, I suppose I should be glad then.”

Susan smiled again, softer, and turned back to Peter. When Arthur looked, Peter was moving through some steps that look vaguely familiar, some routine Arthur had seen him practice with his rifle once. He didn’t appear nearly as bothered by the heft of the sword as Arthur had felt the other night, but he supposed it might not have been quite as long for Peter as it had for him. 

“Thank you for your letter,” Susan said after a moment. “And for making sure he came home in one piece.”

“I’m glad you were here to see him,” Arthur answered honestly. “I would have hated for there to be a delay.”

“I’m glad, too. That you’ve returned as well.” she continued, and he turned to find her already facing him. “How long do you have?” Her voice didn’t wavered, but she was cautious in her query. 

“Long enough,” he responded carefully. He had questions of his own for her, but for once he was content enough to wait. Arthur felt, through the years, that he’d been on a constant and unending search for something to fill the void between the king he’d been and the man he was. For a place he could be himself without worry of who exactly that was at any given moment. Someplace to relax. And finally—with Merlin in the next room and friends like the Pevensies nearby—it seemed he was nearly there.

“For what?” Susan asked, eyes bright and round and searching. 

Arthur reached up to brush a curl from her face, fingers gently ghosting across her skin, and answered, “To see the flowers bloom, again.”

Her smile sang him home.

It was a rare feat, considering Arthur and Merlin spent most of their time with them despite having obtained a flat of their own fairly quickly, but with Lucy away at the hospital and Peter and Arthur gone to meet Merlin in town, Susan found herself in the house alone for the first time just a week later. 

It wasn’t an unusual thing for her. She’d spent months alone earlier that year, after all. But she felt more at home now than she had in all that time. The house was full, even if no one else was home.

Well,  _ almost  _ full. 

Susan wasn’t the only one to feel the one truly empty space in the house. Lucy popped into Edmund’s room from time to time, in and out quickly, leaving her illustrations where she always had—all over the walls in no particular order. Susan knew because it was where she found herself now. 

The walls were covered, one of them even twice over, with various drawings in Lucy’s hand. Most of them were of Narnia and their time there. But there were a few portraits of them as they were now. These hung closest to the few true photographs posted to the wall by Edmund’s desk—one, a family portrait a few years before the war; one of them at Professor Kirke’s house, in front of the wardrobe, and one of them a year later wearing their school uniforms. 

The people in the photos felt lifetimes away, despite only having been a few odd years old, but as much as she missed them, she knew she missed Edmund more as he was now.

His absence was as it always had been—a sharp pain. There were times during the years of their reign in Narnia that one or more of the thrones at Cair Paravel sat empty. Never for too long, and rarely all four at once. Often, it had been Peter who was gone. But there were differences in their vacancies.

As energetic as she was, Lucy’s presence was felt most often in the people around the citadel and the lower town. Even when she left Cair Paravel, she was still felt. Peter was much the same, though it was the loyalty he inspired that permeated the walls, coming from all those that remained. Wherever there were those faithful to the crowns, Peter’s leadership was felt. And between dignitary visits, festivals, and various other matters of state, Susan was a near constant figure in the castle, having woven presence into the very manner in which things were done, so much so that her absences, rare though they already were, were hardly felt.

But Edmund was different. He was such a quiet, unassuming fixture to the Narnian court that the void he left whenever he traveled was more unsettling than the rest. For Susan and the others, it was more overt—he was their brother after all and they saw him most often. But even among those frequenting the halls, the change was noticeable, if perhaps a bit intangible. 

The rooms felt emptier, and the shadows a bit darker. Edmund knew all there was to know about the castle, better than even the squirrels who scurried through the smallest nooks and crannies. When he was gone, others watched. And though it was for their safety and for his own peace of mind, it was always odd, knowing Edmund was gone simply by the change in atmosphere around the castle.

It wasn’t like that, here. Edmund had no entourage of spies to hide away in the small spaces of an already small home. Somehow, it was worse.

Susan sighed and walked slowly around the room, careful to step over or around the few books still left scattered and stacked (though she had a feeling some of those were Lucy’s doing, considering the placement of some of the pictures on the wall). 

Lucy’s newest illustrations were all pencil sketches—Susan had seen the rub of graphite against the side of her hand last night—and they lined the edges of the window. They were varying degrees of finished, some filling in only parts of the pages, others covering so much there was barely any safe space to touch without running the risk of adding smudges. 

A sketch of Excalibur. The house from the outside. Peter in the sitting room, paging through one of his books. A profile of Susan, herself. And behind that, a simple sketch of Cair Paravel, from the shore down below, and the silhouette of six figures looking up at the castle. She didn’t have to look too hard to recognize the additional two, not when one of them wore a crown and the other a pointy wizard’s hat. It made her smile and wonder whether Merlin would or wouldn’t actually wear one, if asked.

Susan had one of Lucy’s other’s photos with her when she got to London later that afternoon, folded and tucked safely into her purse, though she hated to leave creases. She hadn’t been in the city in quite some time, but desperate times required desperate measures: she had a letter to deliver with no address to deliver it to, and only knew one man who might be able to help her with it. 

It was, perhaps, Malcolm’s greatest gift to her. Beyond helping her discover who it was she was not, he had also managed to introduce her to a number of singularly fascinating individuals. Several of whom she had never intended to ever be in contact again. 

“Is Mr. Hentley in?” she asked when she reached the information desk. The building was unassuming, a simple telephone operator tower. A bit too on the nose for Susan’s taste, but she figured their network of spies could make their own decisions as to the nature of their cover operations.

“One moment. Who might I tell him is visiting?”

“Pevensie,” she stated simply.

The woman nodded, as though it weren’t odd to only be given a last name, and turned her attention to the dials in front of her.

Susan did her best not to listen in, but it was only a moment later before the woman looked up at her again. “If you’ll take the elevator up to the 5th floor, he’ll be there to greet you.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Hentley looked older than she remembered him being, graying ahead of his ears, but everything about him was still sharp. His nose, his gaze. She imagined, too, that in his line of work, it paid to dress well. 

“Miss Pevensie.” If he was surprised to see her, he did not show it, and instead gestured back through the long hallway, leading her to an office tucked away in the corner.

“Thank you for seeing me. I’ll make it short, as I’m sure you have a busy day.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

She nodded. “I believe you know my brother, Edmund?”

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“I’ve a letter for him that I’d like seen delivered.”

“A letter?”

“A note, really. Nothing elaborate. An address, a set of dates.”

“I see. May I see it?”

Susan pulled the paper from her purse, only partially unfolding it to reveal what she’d described and nothing more.

“I assume, if you’re here with the actual physical note, there’s a reason you don’t want to rely on a verbal message to pass on… a simple time and place?”

She nodded, “That would be correct.”

He wanted more than what he was asking for, but Susan had long ago learned to answer only what was asked—growing up with Edmund had had its perks.

“You don’t intend to tell me what that reason is, do you?”

“No.”

“Something your brother will understand, when he sees it?”

She nodded. 

“You Pevensies talk in a way that makes a fella have to listen, don’t you?”

She smiled, politely, “In a manner of speaking, though I’d hate to know what you’d think of our other siblings.”

“There’s more of you, then?”

“Four altogether. But you already knew that,” she said, smiling politely. “I wouldn’t bother trying to recruit the rest of us. Edmund’s the best of us rolled into one, and you’ve already got him.”

Hentley sighed and held out his hand. “This is against policy, you know.”

“I suspected as much.”

He shook his head, and she knew then that Edmund would get the message, even if Hentley had to hand deliver it himself. 

In fact, she almost hoped he would. Edmund would need permission for what Susan was asking and the fewer hoops he had to go through to get it, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glad to have almost the whole gang back together :) next week's chapter has the full reunion, and i'll also be following up with the epilogue, so be prepared!


	20. KIRKE MANOR. LATE DECEMBER 1945

He hadn’t planned on it, but it was almost perfect that Susan was the one to open the door when he arrived. 

“Edmund! You made it!”

Though obviously surprised, his sister looked good. Bold red lipstick lined her lips, her eyes were bright, and her smile was full. She looked happy. “Hello, Susan.”

She shook her head, as though coming back to herself. “Sorry, come in, come in. It’s freezing out.”

“Thanks.” He stepped in, shaking off his hat as he did so. Then, he pulled a small square from his pocket. “I got your note.”

“Oh.” Susan’s smile shifted and her face softened. “Well?”

He eyed her carefully. There hadn’t been much in Lucy’s sketch, but Edmund had never needed much to begin with. “I assume Malcolm isn’t here, then?”

Susan gave a short nod, but kept her expression pleasant. “I came back alone.”

“But not here. Right? The others?”

“Yes. They’re all with the professor now. You’re the last.” 

Edmund nodded, he’d expected as much. “Arthur delivered my message then, I see. Well, good. I was afraid I’d have to have a word with him as well as a fight.”

“Ed! I don’t need you fighting everyone I start to see, you know.”

“So you are seeing one another then,” he asked.

At Susan’s gasp, he cracked, grinning. 

She shook her head, but Edmund could see her smile returning and he knew all was fine with them, even if he was actually fond of the idea of a sword fight. He wasn’t sure if there would ever be a time where he’d turn one down.

“Where are they now?”

“In the back hall, off the French gallery. We’ve only just finished supper. Have you eaten?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. There wouldn’t be any left over, would there?”

“Plenty. Come on.”

“You go on. I can find my way to the kitchen. I’ll meet you all after.”

She asked if he was sure, twice, but Edmund was positive. He certainly wanted to see the others, but he had his reservations still and he didn’t want to keep her. 

The kitchen was stocked full with everything he had missed. But despite the spread—most still a bit warm—Edmund grabbed an apple from the basket and turned right back out again. He wanted to see it first. The wardrobe.

His feet took up him to the second floor corridor and to the right room without thought. It was exactly as Edmund remembered it, if only a bit smaller. He’d grown since going through and coming back through this entrance. After five years, he hoped he would have. 

If he considered his Narnian years, however, he still hadn’t made it to his previous stature. A bit shorter, perhaps—though he wasn’t sure if that was due to his lack of posture now or because he still had an inch or two yet to grow. He also had much shorter hair, which was better for him now, by his thinking. As much as it had been the style during their reign, Edmund wasn’t sure he would manage having hair matted against the back of his neck again, in the middle of a fight or even just while out under the summer sun.

“Things sure have changed…” he muttered to the empty room, to the wood under his fingers. He ran his hands along the grooves of the carved edges, hoping they would settle his bones. He, like his other siblings, had spent a considerable amount of time by this wardrobe after they came back. Even after Professor Kirke explained that they would be unlikely to get to Narnia through it again. 

For Edmund, it hadn’t been about going back so much as it was remembering what it felt like to not be so small. Of everything, he had missed the physicality of who he’d become the most. So much so that he resolved, quite quickly, to be that man again, even as a child.

In some ways, it was worth it. In others, it hadn’t been. But like Susan, he was beginning to work out just how much he’d lost of himself and what he meant to keep. What he wanted, and would allow himself to have.

Edmund had never been the type to grant himself too many of his own wishes and desires. The last time he’d done it, he’d nearly lost his life. Instead, he’d gained a lifelong fear of magic, which nearly kept him from coming to the professor’s home tonight.

He drew his fingers away from the wardrobe, curling them into the palms of his hands. 

Edmund was scared, and he didn’t want to be. Certainly not of Merlin—because he wasn’t the White Witch. So the fear he held was, all things considered, illogical and pointless. And yet… 

“Edmund?”

He spun on his heels. Lucy always did have an uncanny ability to find him, right when he needed her.

“Susan said you were in the kitchen, but when you weren’t there, I thought…” She smiled softly, standing just inside the doorway. “Well, I thought you might be here.”

“I just…didn’t want to face everyone yet,” he confessed, ducking his head. “I figure the lot of you might still be mad at me.”

“Yes, well, whose fault is that?”

Edmund looked up and, upon seeing her teasing grin, chuckled. “Could I ask for a favor?”

She tilted her head. “What is it?”

“Do you think… you could ask him to meet me here?”

She seemed to consider it for a minute, and then nodded. “On one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Let Arthur beat you, when you challenge him,” she requested, before grinning. “I like him, and Susan’s happy. Really, truly happy.”

Edmund countered, “I’ll only use one sword.”

“Right handed.”

“Fine,” he accepted, rolling his eyes.

“Great! I’ll be right back. Or… well, I won’t, but you know what I mean.”

He took a few steps after her. “Lucy!” 

“Yes?” she said, popping back around the door.

“Thanks.”

Lucy appeared as she often did, unannounced, and pulled him from his conversation with Peter—he was only asking after Camelot for the hundredth time, so he did not mind. 

When they were near the door, she leaned up and whispered quietly into Merlin’s ear. “He’s here.”

“What? Who?”

“Go on.” She pushed him none too gently toward the door. “Take a right at the end of the hall, straight through the parlor, up the stairs to the left, another right, and it’s the second door down that hallway.”

Even with her directions, Merlin felt a bit as though he were stuck in a labyrinth, but he supposed a bit of that was just due to his own confusion and unfamiliarity with the house.

It was larger than he’d expected, but Professor Kirke was a wonderful host, and it was clear that Peter, Susan, and Lucy were thrilled to be back again. A learned man, the professor even took to engaging quite heartily with Arthur and Merlin, curious about the rights and wrongs of varying legends and retellings of their stories. It was a safe space, this house. Even if it was a confusing one.

Merlin thought, after several minutes, that he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. Then finally, he passed a door left cracked open down a hallway he thought he’d gone down before. It seemed like an invitation, when so many of the others were shut and locked.

Tentatively, he pushed it open. 

The room was dark—even with the light falling in from the hallway and a spare few candles lit along the walls—and mostly bare, except for a large wardrobe, set against the back of the room. In front of it was Edmund.

He was facing the wardrobe and had yet to move, but Merlin knew his presence was known. Edmund always knew. 

“I used to stand here thinking if I waited long enough, it would open up and let me back through again.” Edmund sounded sure of himself as he flexed his hands down by his side. “Let me back to the only place I ever felt… free.”

Merlin, unsure of what to say, stood in the doorway and stared at the back of Edmund’s head, doing his best to keep from following the long line of his back. His posture was relaxed—in as much as Edmund was ever relaxed—but there was tension falling from his shoulders into his hands, making Merlin feel as though they were too close, despite the length of the room between them.

Edmund sighed and finally tucked his hands into his pockets as he rocked on his heels. 

“I was wrong though. I was wrong about so much. And I owe you an apology for most of it.”

“What?” Merlin managed hoarsely. His throat felt dry and he tried to swallow.

“I thought you were something you weren’t. And I left before giving you a chance at any kind of explanation.” 

He turned, slowly, and Merlin found his eyes immediately. 

Like that first night in France, nearly a year ago now, soft amber light danced in them, rich and dark. And like that first night, Merlin felt on the edge of something precarious.

“I don’t blame you for it,” he whispered, measuring the distance between them as Edmund took a hesitant step forward. Still more than an arm’s reach away. Too far, but safe.

“I do.”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t.”

“I’m a king, Merlin. You can’t tell me what I can and cannot do. What I should and should not feel.”

“Can’t I?” he asked, voice a little louder, firm enough to stand behind now. Just being around Edmund gave him strength. “I’ve lived a thousand years. I know the kind of weight guilt and blame carry. I know how they warp a mind.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? I understand the guilt you carry all too well. You and I. We are made of the same, and for all I saw of you, I missed that.” He took another step forward, the distance between them growing ever more dangerous. “It’s okay though.”

“Is it?”

Edmund was well within reach now, but still Merlin kept his hands at his side. Fought to keep from touching him. Everything with Edmund, Merlin had learned, was a battle—an all out war.

“I’ve figured it out,” Edmund explained. “I figured out where I went wrong.”

Merlin’s breath hitched as he stepped forward again, too close.

“Do you want to know what it was?”

He hesitated, but Edmund had yet to break eye contact with him, had yet to turn and hide himself away. And for that, Merlin found it in himself to listen to one last confession—one last moment of vulnerability from the man who so rarely left himself open in this way. He nodded.

“I was wrong before,” Edmund stated simply, closing the distance between them with another firm step forward. “You don’t remind me of Narnia.” 

Despite himself, Merlin felt himself draw up closer, answering the pull he had been foolish to think he could resist. There was no distance between them that could ever truly be safe. Already, he was falling into the smooth, warm shine of Edmund’s eyes. 

It was hopeless, this fight. Merlin would always lose. 

“Then what?” he whispered.

Edmund smiled, the curve of his lips slight but as full as they would ever get. “You remind me what it’s like to forgive myself.”

And then he was kissing him in soft desperation. Lightly, with a tenderness Merlin hadn’t felt from him before, though the spark he felt ignite inside was the same. 

So much had happened in recent weeks that he felt he should be grateful for, and there was an endless number of things he’d considered to do with his time, with his life. But this… 

Merlin knew, with only the feel of Edmund’s cool and slightly chapped lips against his own, this was what he would choose. When this life ended and the dust finally settled, Merlin would find him in the next. In every world, and all their lifetimes. It would be Edmund he would reach for. Because he understood now, love was not a battle to be fought against each other, but one fought _for_ one another. They weren’t on opposing sides at all.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, breathless when they pulled apart.

Edmund nodded, and Merlin pulled him back and kissed him once more, grinning against his lips. Because there weren’t always words for something like this. He wasn’t sure there ever would be. But, he found, he didn’t quite mind.

“I’m going to have to teach you the meaning of the word secret,” Edmund murmured when they broke apart again, forehead resting against his.

“Never said it was a secret,” he countered. “I’m a bit tired of them, to be perfectly honest.”

“Would you prefer a story, then?” Edmund laughed, and Merlin soaked up the sound of it. Let it ring in his heart.

“Depends. One of yours or one of mine?” he asked, feeling Edmund’s lips stretch thin under his thumb, curving into a careless smile.

“How about one of ours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this final chapter turned out shorter than originally planned, but i wanted to keep some things for the possible sequel i hope to work on soon. so, for now. this is the end, minus a very short epilogue, coming up next.


	21. LONDON. MAY 1947

It was a mistake, really, promising to see everyone home when Peter knew they would be out on the dance floor until long into the night. It was always this way with them, and he hadn’t had any reason to expect it would be different tonight of all nights. 

Despite his want for a bed, Peter couldn’t bring himself to disrupt the newlyweds turning about the room. Nor the others still scattered around the hall. Not when they all looked so happy.

The wedding had been small and private, and, as Susan had been the one to plan it all herself, there really wasn’t anything to monitor or worry about. The entire ceremony had gone off without a hitch. 

Even the vows, the bride and groom’s own had gone well. In fact, from what Peter heard during the reception, they were some of the most touching Aunt Alberta had ever heard—high praise from a woman who very nearly hadn’t even been invited.  Peter agreed with her, of course, but he also felt a bit like he was cheating, considering he knew the meaning behind words others couldn’t, even if they thought they did.

_ “You knew me before we even met, saw me at my darkest and yet still came searching, making way for the sun. I would wait for you a thousand years, a king among knights.” _

_ “It was never the way you looked, and always the way you were. Your words brought me back to myself, home to a place I’d never been but always knew.” _

Plenty had been moved by the words, and they thought they understood. They chalked it up to the war—a simple explanation, a catch-all for everything they were not privy to understanding. 

But Peter knew the truth.

A few others did as well. Digory and Polly, who had long since retired for the night with the rest of the other guests. Lucy, who had somehow managed to pull Edmund to the dance floor alongside Susan and Arthur. Edmund, who wasn’t nearly as put off as his expression professed him to be. And Merlin, who was coming Peter’s way, after having lost Edmund to his sister.

“I’ll see that everyone gets home safe, if you’d like to go. I know you’ve a long trip back.”

Peter smiled, but shook his head. “It’s alright. I already sat most of my exams.”

Merlin nodded and turned back to look at the others. Seeing his profile like this, Peter was able to catch it rather easily: the faint glow of gold in the corners of his eyes.

“Merlin?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

He only smiled, though, and Peter tilted his head to watch as the lights dimmed and the decoration around the room—a satisfactory, but simple deep blue and silver—shifted and changed to a bold, bright red and a vibrant gold. 

First the tablecloths and silverware, then the various smaller decor. Until finally, up front, two large formal banners replaced the streamers, unfurling to reveal first a rearing lion, and then a dragon, both embroidered brightly in gold on rich velvety red fabric.

Then, Lucy squealed, because it wasn’t just the decor but their clothes that changed as well. The girls’ dresses became elaborate gowns, fitting for a bride and a queen, while the boys had their suit jackets and ties changed out for more appropriate tunics and stitched doublets. 

Merlin had even gotten the colors right.

Arthur and Peter in similar red and gold, though Arthur’s clothes held a touch more black in the detail where Peter’s were lined in a pale blue. Susan wore a deep violet gown, with silver adornments along the edges and down the back, matching the ribbon Merlin left in her hair. Lucy wore various blues, with a layers of deep burgundy and gold woven into the skirt of her dress, and Edmund stood beside her dressed in his usual dark green tones, the accents pulled together in clean black stitches.

Even Merlin, who had sworn up and down that he hadn’t had to deal with the fuss of court attire when he was at Camelot, was done up in a deep, royal blue ensemble, the seams lined in gold and black.

“ _ Mer _ lin!”

The man grinned across the room to Arthur and waved his hands just once more in response. The gold of his eyes burned, and then faded back to their clear, shining blue.

At first, Peter wasn’t sure what more he’d done with the gesture. They were already dressed as though they were in Narnia, or Camelot perhaps—he didn’t know which Merlin had thought of—and the hall’s brick walls had turned a creamy stone white, the windows vibrant as they reflected the candle light around the room. Everything around them was exactly as he remembered. And his family looked exactly how they once had.

Then, he saw it. Glittering, shining metal resting carefully atop everyone’s head. Cautiously, Peter reached up and felt the familiar points to his crown, sitting where it always had on his forehead. Like he’d never lost it. Like he’d never left Narnia at all.

But the truth was he had. They’d all left or had their previous lives taken from them in one way or another—by death or magic—and been left to piece together some semblance of a life on their own. To survive in a world where they might never see something like what Merlin was showing them now with his magic. But this little hall was not Cair Paravel, nor was it Camelot, either. 

It was something else.

Hardly more than a rented dance hall at the edge of London transformed into a grand hall that only resembled something out of the legends they each held so near to their hearts.

Still, for the six of them—three kings, two queens, and a sorcerer—it was a brand new kingdom. Uniquely their own, and exactly what they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for sticking through to the end. i'd always wanted to write a ww2 story of _some_ kind, and i'm so incredibly glad that this is the one that came together for me. this fic is the first of what I hope will be two multi-chapter works in this series. the second hasn't fully come together for me yet, so it might be some time before i get it up here, but don't be surprised if i throw up a few deleted scenes and/or interludes beforehand. as always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, and you can always find me on tumblr under the same username :) thanks again!


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